The Consulting Detective and His Pathologist
by TheSapphireSky
Summary: Another collection of Sherlolly ficlets, a follow-up to The Pathologist and the Consulting Detective.
1. A Little Bit of Revenge

It hadn't been a huge row, but it was enough for Molly to angrily stomp her way through the day. Sherlock, of course, had no idea that that what he had done was wrong and shrugged her anger off as hormonal.

Molly had steamed all day, until she met Mary for dinner. The blonde had immediately known that something had happened and jokingly demanded that Molly spill all.

'It's silly, I know, but the fact that he didn't take into consideration that it would hurt my feelings,' Molly lamented, poking at her meal.

'It's the end of the honeymoon phase,' Mary sympathised. 'He's used to you being sweet and accommodating, that he forgets that you're not invincible to his moods.'

Molly smiled. 'True. I guess I just got used to him being overly attentive that I forgot that the man I fell in love with can be quite emotionally blind.' She took a sip of her water and frowned. 'But there's still a small part of me that wants to punish him, make him suffer a little.'

Mary quirked her eyebrow. 'Oh? Is that a vindictive side I'm seeing in you, Mrs Holmes?'

'Perhaps,' Molly laughed. 'I'd never be able to hurt him, though. I would hate myself.'

'Well, that depends on your form of revenge.'

Molly tilted her head in question.

Mary leaned forward and whispered, 'The best way to punish a husband is to deny him.'

'Deny him?'

The former assassin giggled at Molly's innocence and waggled her eyebrows. 'You know... the goods.'

Molly's face burned red. 'I-I-I can't do that.'

'That good, huh? Can't keep your hands off each other?' Mary teased. She relished her friend's discomfort for a moment, before continuing. 'I guarantee, you dress sexy, tease him a bit, then just when he's putty in your hands, you douse him in cold water... hypothetically, of course.' Her eyes suddenly gleamed. 'Although...'

Molly laughed quietly as her thoughts drifted. Sherlock was just a man, after all. And he was subject to his base instincts, as he'd proven every night he could since their physical relationship began. Perhaps it was worth a shot. Just to get back at him a little.

An evil grin began to form. Yes. This plan definitely had great potential.

* * *

When Sherlock's footsteps sounded on the stairs to 221b later than night, Molly quickly arranged herself on the bed, ready to go into battle. He had texted her that afternoon that he was on a case and might be home late. Which worked for her, giving her plenty of time to make herself as desirable as possible. She shaved her legs, brushed her hair until it shone, and dressed in his favorite lingerie set under the camel-colored dressing gown she had stolen from him.

She grinned wickedly. He would be unable to resist. And when he caved... oh, then she'd let the other shoe drop.

The door to the bedroom opened and her husband shouldered his way in.

'Hello, love,' Molly purred seductively from her perch on their bed, setting down the book she had been pretending to read and pushing her glasses up her nose. He was ever so appreciative of her 'bookish' look. 'How was the case?'

'Brilliant!' Sherlock exclaimed, leaning down to press a kiss to her lips. She smiled at his giddiness. He shrugged off his suit jacket and went to hang it in the wardrobe. 'It started as a 6, but turned out to be a 9! Oh, it was Christmas! John wasn't thrilled about it...'

Molly normally had no trouble paying attention to Sherlock. But tonight, as he unbuttoned his tight shirt, she found her thoughts drifting far from his case talk. She groaned almost inaudibly as he shucked off his shirt and tossed it in the laundry bin.

Sherlock didn't appear to notice. 'It wasn't until we were trapped in the rafters that we realized neither of us had told Graham which warehouse we were in...'

'Mmmm.' Molly licked her lips as he began working on his trousers. To her great disappointment, he suddenly walked into the bathroom, out of her sight, but still talking.

'John knocked the first guy out, while I managed to incapacitate the other two...' The sound of running water and him brushing his teeth interrupted his story momentarily. Shaking herself out of her daze, Molly chastised herself. Time to get back in the game. She slid out of the dressing gown and arranged herself in a casually seductive pose atop the covers.

Sherlock walked out of the bathroom in his pants and slid into the bed beside her. She pouted at how he ignored her display, growing ever more frustrated as he placed his hands behind his head and grinned in triumph. She tried to keep her gaze from drifting to his bare chest, but that was an exercise in futility. 'By the time Graham figured out which warehouse we were in, we had them tied in parachute cord and-!'

'Oh, shut up!' Unable to stay strong, Molly suddenly lunged at him, cutting off his words with a passionate kiss. Sherlock froze for a second in shock, but quickly caught up and pulled her across his chest, eagerly deepening the kiss into a heavy snog.

Panting, Molly finally pulled back and glared down at his smug face. 'You knew all along, didn't you?'

'John has spent many a day complaining about Mary's schemes to make him suffer. It wasn't hard to deduce what you were doing.' He quirked an eyebrow as his thumbs rubbed circles over her silk-covered thighs. 'Did you really think I would be so easily susceptible to your womanly wiles?'

Molly sat up and raised her eyebrows. 'Womanly wiles?'

Realizing he was most definitely now treading on dangerous ground, Sherlock rolled them over and kissed her frowning lips. 'Mmmm, natural sexiness?'

Molly laced her arms behind his head and heaved a sigh. 'I know what you're doing, but quite frankly, I don't care at the moment. Now shut up and kiss me.'

Sherlock grinned and proceeded to prove that she didn't, in fact, need any womanly wiles to seduce him.


	2. How Long?

**Sherlock** : *bursts into the lab in, agitated* Molly, are you aware that our friends believe us to be in a romantic relationship?

 **Molly** : *calmly adds a drop to the vial in her hand* Yes.

 **Sherlock** : *freezes in confusion* Why did you not correct them?

 **Molly** : *furrows her brow in concentration* Because we are in a relationship.

 **Sherlock** : *checks his Mind Palace* … we are?

 **Molly** : *purses her lips and makes a note of her findings* Mmhmm.

 **Sherlock** : Since when?

 **Molly** : *puts down her work and finally looks at him* Since you took me out for fish and chips after arresting the Fake Moriarty.

 **Sherlock** : *brings up the memory file* …oh.

 **Molly** : *smirks* Ye _p_.

 **Sherlock** : *indignant* Were you ever going to tell me?

 **Molly** : I thought I'd see how long it took for you to realize.

 **Sherlock** : *calculates the timeframe* So, that would be-

 **Molly** : Three months and 18 days.

 **Sherlock** : Ah. And our experiments and take-away nights at Baker Street have been-

 **Molly** : Dates? Yes.

 **Sherlock** : How long were you planning on keeping it from me?

 **Molly** : *grins cheekily* Long enough to be able lord it over you for a good long while once you did realize we were dating.

 **Sherlock** : *pouts*

 **Molly** : *approaches him and wraps her arms around his neck* Would a kiss from your girlfriend help soothe your injured ego?

 **Sherlock** : *rolls his eyes* There's no proof that a physical display will-mmpff!

 **Molly** : *tugs his head down and cuts him off with a passionate kiss*

 **Sherlock** : *breaking away, panting* Will definitely need more data, but the results are looking promising.


	3. She's a Pirate

_Pirates of the Caribbean AU. Molly as the female Will Turner, Sherlock as the son of a Lord._

* * *

'This is wrong,' Sherlock hissed. The sun bore down on the crowd as the judgment of the drum beat sounded.

'We have no other alternative, Lord Holmes,' Captain Lestrade replied, lifting his chin as they watched the proceedings.

'There is always an alternative.'

'Irene Adler, for your crimes against the crown, you have been sentenced to death by hanging…'

The voice drolled on as Irene rolled her eyes. 'It's _Captain… Captain_ Irene Adler.' She stood on the platform, her hands tied behind her back and three guards at the ready behind her, swords drawn, should the elusive pirate attempt to escape.

A movement in the crowd drew Sherlock's attention. A familiar head of loose brown tresses wove among the people, coming closer to where he stood with his brother and Lestrade.

'Lord Holmes, Captain Lestrade,' Molly Hooper greeted as she came into view, her gaze moving from man to man, finally landing on Sherlock. 'Sherlock.'

'Miss Hooper, this is hardly the place for a lady,' Lestrade chastised her.

Molly smirked, adjusting the ties of her cloak. Sherlock caught a flash of sunlight glinting off something hanging from her waist as she did so. He smirked. 'I'm hardly a lady, Captain. An orphan apprenticing in the art of dissection and craftsmanship? A hanging is nearly the tamest cause of death I've come across.'

'Nevertheless, my dear,' Mycroft frowned. 'It is entirely unsuitable for you to be here. One would have thought your tangling with the likes of Irene Adler once would be sufficient.'

The once timid wisp of a girl quirked her eyebrow at the powerful man and lifted her chin. 'I have come with purpose.'

'And that would be?'

Straightening her shoulders, Molly turned her piercing gaze to Sherlock. The drum beats tempo increased behind them and the noose was placed around Irene's neck. 'To tell you that I have always loved you. It was no secret, and you surely have been aware of the fact. But it needs to be said.'

The men gaped at her, this orphan girl who had become a woman through a harrowing pirate ordeal and who willingly and publicly laid her heart bare.

She smiled brightly at all three. 'Also, I came to apologize.'

'Whatever for?' Mycroft would regret asking this for years to come.

She reached up and pulled the ties loose on her cloak. 'For this.' She whirled about, her cloak falling away to reveal a white blouse bound to her waist by a black corset, tight trousers adorning her legs, and a sword sheath attached to a leather belt. Her sword already in one hand, a dagger in the other, as she pushed through the crowd away from the stunned men.

'Move!' She bellowed as the drum beats gave way to an anticipatory roll. The crowd parted at her shout and with a spectacular throw, she whipped the dagger at the rope just as the bottom of the platform collapsed beneath Irene. The dagger sliced through the rope and the pirate fell to the ground, rolling to her feet and immediately rushing to Molly's side. Molly cut Irene's bindings and they hurried through the stunned crowd as the Captain's guards rushed in from all sides.

Captain Lestrade was on their heels as they rushed to the only possible escape, the overlook. The women skidded to halt just before they tumbled over the edge.

'Did you think this through at all?!' Irene laughed as they gripped each other's arms.

Molly shook her head, pushing the pirate behind her as a dozen soldiers appeared, their swords drawn on the fugitives.

'Molly Hooper!' Mycroft shouldered his way through the men and leveled her with a glare that would turn a lesser man into ashes. 'How dare you!'

'How dare _I_? How dare _you_ condemn someone to death for crimes you have no proof of!'

'She is a pirate!'

'As am I!'

Stunned silence fell over the crowd at Molly's bellow.

Sherlock appeared behind his brother and it was all Molly could do not to look at him for help. For all she knew, her admission of love only sealed his contempt for emotions and he would readily hand her over to the mercies of the court.

'She may not be the most moral woman, but she has done no crimes that would harm anyone. Yet, you would let your fear of pirates dictate whether or not she lives. Who are you to wield the power of life and death?'

'She is a criminal who must be hanged for her crimes. And who in their right mind will stop me? You?' Mycroft scoffed.

Molly lifted her chin and was about to answer when Sherlock shoved his way past his brother to stand by her side. 'I will.'

He slipped her arm through his and tugged her to his side and slightly behind him. Molly felt as though her heart would burst. But that might also have been caused by the rush of running for her life after freeing a condemned pirate.

'Sherlock!' Lestrade hissed.

Mycroft gaped. 'You would choose this… this _pirate_ over doing what is right?'

Sherlock looked down at her and the side of his mouth twitched in a faint smile, which vanished when he raised his gaze to his brother once more. 'By choosing her, I _am_ doing what is right.'

'Well, this has been such great fun,' Irene interrupted behind them. 'But I really must be going.' She sauntered around Molly and Sherlock to plant a kiss on Mycroft's cheek. Pursing her lips, she batted her eyes at him. 'Now, don't be a stranger. What fun is it being a pirate when no one is chasing you?'

Mycroft's nose wrinkled in distaste as Irene turned away from him. She stood up on her tiptoes and placed a firm kiss on Sherlock's unyielding lips. 'Sorry, love, but it never would have worked out between us.'

Sherlock's brow furrowed and he flicked his eyes to Molly, who was desperately holding back her laughter.

'Molly, dear,' Irene purred and grasped Molly's hands tightly. 'I cannot ever thank you enough.' She walked to the edge of the overlook and turned her head to look back at them once more. With a wink, she said 'I owe you one.'

With that, she spread her arms and fell gracefully over the side. Molly gasped and rushed to the edge, only to see Irene breaking the surface of the water and start swimming toward the waiting ship nearby, a black flag waving in the wind.

She shook her head fondly at the pirate. Sherlock came up to her side and laced his fingers with hers. She looked up at him, the wind blowing her hair across her face and he reached out to brush it behind her ear.

'Is this really your choice, Sherlock?' Mycroft asked, barely noticing as Lestrade hustled his men down to the docks in pursuit of Irene. There was no heat in the older Holmes' voice, just resignation. 'She is, after all, not of noble birth.'

Sherlock's answer was to wrap his arms around his pirate, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that was far from proper. She moaned into his mouth and pulled herself closer to him, his hands tangling in her hair and her hands knocking the hated hat from his head.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and walked away.

When Molly finally pulled back, breathless and flushed, Sherlock refused to release his hold on her, rather alluring, figure. She giggled up at him, her brave, sword-wielding front lowered to let him see the pirate he loved beneath. He silenced her laughter with another kiss.


	4. Secret Admirer

_A/N: I am Potter!lock trash._

* * *

For the third time in two days, Molly found herself as the center of attention in the Great Hall. She had gone almost seven years without drawing too much attention to herself. And now, in her final year, someone was determined to shine a spotlight on her.

Yesterday, an owl had swept over the Hufflepuff table during breakfast and dropped a brown parcel onto her scrambled eggs. Inside was a heart-shaped box of her favourite chocolates. A small note, written in sharp, spiky letters, read _'To the girl whose heart is as sugary sweet as these candies.'_

Her befuddlement might have gone unnoticed if Irene Adler hadn't leaned over from the Slytherin table and snatched it from her hand, cackling to the entire hall about the pathetic, mousey Molly having caught the eye of some silly first year. John and Mary had let loose a stream of curses at the other girl that would have gotten them a month's detention had any professors been nearby. Sherlock had just glowered at Irene, a curious flush on his face.

That evening, her embarrassment had barely begun to fade when once again she was forced into the spotlight. She had just filled her plate and picked up her fork to take a bite of her less-than-favorite meal when the food vanished entirely. She jerked back in surprise and glanced around to see that everyone else was digging in. She looked back down and nearly fell backwards off the bench. Instead of the silver plate and heaps of meat and potatoes, in front of her was a porcelain bowl with skulls etched along the rim, overflowing with scoops of Superman ice cream, the brilliant colors a stark contrast to the white bowl. It was a Muggle treat, something her father would bring out of the freezer at home when she needed a pick-me-up, something she hadn't been able to find the magical equivalent of at Hogwarts.

Her friends' conversations died away as they noticed the strange concoction. A few Muggle-borns exclaimed in jealous delight at the sight, word spreading quickly down the table and out to the other Houses.

A note written in the same hand as the first rested half-way underneath the bowl. She pulled it free and blushed as she read. _'A treat for the superhero who is always saving me.'_

She frowned, trying to think of who it could be. But with everyone clamoring around her, she could hardly string two logical thoughts together. The murmurs faded into the background as Molly hesitantly picked up her spoon and scooped off a small portion of the rainbow treat. The minute the frozen concoction caressed her taste buds, she let out a delighted moan. Oh, she had missed this.

Mary and John snuck a few bites, but when she offered a bit to Sherlock, instead of sneering down at the treat in derision, as she expected him to, gave her a sincere smile and politely declined.

Students strained their necks trying to get a glance of the strange ice cream, their eyes widening in envy as Molly licked her spoon clean of the last scoop. Their disappointed groans followed her as she stood and shouldered her way out of the Great Hall with her friends, her thumb rubbing along the edge of the note in her pocket. She had her suspicions of who her secret admirer was. And she dearly hoped she was right.

And the next morning, she stood in the middle of the Great Hall, the ceiling dazzled with early morning fog and streams of magical sunlight, and her suspicions were confirmed, to her disbelieving delight. She had been enjoying a quiet breakfast with John and Mary when Sherlock strode up to the table with purpose, his neatly pressed robes billowing out around him. Molly smiled up at their friend, her greeting dying on her lips when he didn't sit down, but instead hauled her to her feet and crushed his lips to hers.

She froze, trying to understand what was happening. _Sherlock Holmes is kissing you, you idiot! KISS HIM BACK!_ She sighed and let her arms fall over his shoulders, her heart racing as he pressed further into her. The laughter and cat-calls around them didn't phase her, her mind completely filled with the high of Sherlock's lips. She gasped against his mouth when he dipped her back, his body molded over hers, and turning her surprise into giggles of delight.

Finally, he straightened up and broke the kiss, but didn't remove his arms from their iron hold around her waist. She breathed in deeply and moved her hands down to his chest, trying to regain her equilibrium. 'Um, okay.'

He quirked an eyebrow. 'Just 'okay'? A bevy of adjectives at your disposal, and you choose 'okay'?'

'Earth-shaking, fantastic… good?' She winked cheekily. He huffed, his reddened lips pursing into a pout. 'You could have just said something, you know. You didn't have to make such a big show. Not that it hasn't been appreciated.' She bit her lip and looked up through her eyelashes at her no-longer-secret admirer. Sherlock Holmes, her best friend and the boy she'd been in love with since third year, was holding her in his arms and looking down at her as though the she was the most precious thing in his world.

'Yes, I could have. But after putting up with me for so many years, I reasoned you deserve some special attention.'

Molly blushed and fiddled with the Ravenclaw insignia on his robes. The entire hall was watching them, most in great relief, having had enough of the pompous prat scaring off any boy who came within three feet of his friend, yet refusing to acknowledge any feelings he had for her, whatsoever. The only exceptions seemed to be John and Mary, the former begrudgingly handing a small bag of galleons to his smug girlfriend with a mumbled 'Never should have made a bet that his plan wouldn't work,' and Irene Adler, who was clutching the shards of a glass goblet, her face screwed into an expression of murderous rage.

'So, you kind of like me, then?' Molly asked with a knowing smile.

'It would seem so.' He sighed heavily. 'To my great surprise, I more than like you. Love, would be a far more accurate description.'

Beaming in unconstrained delight, she was about to reward his admission with another kiss when they were interrupted by a fondly exasperated voice.

'As delighted as we all are that the two of you have gotten your act together, we would appreciate it if you would continue your… discussion in a private place, remembering that you are still students of this school for another three days.'

Molly jerked her hands away from Sherlock and turned in his arms to face Professor McGonagall. 'Sorry, professor.' She wiggled out of Sherlock's embrace, to his aggravation.

He reached out and caught her hand, lacing his fingers tightly with hers, and began pulling her out of the Great Hall, calling out behind him, 'My apologies, Professor McGonagall.' Just before he shut the large door behind them, he turned back and winked at the smiling professor. 'We'll send you an invitation to the wedding in a year or two.'

'Sherlock!'


	5. Practical Joke

_A little bit of Potter!lock for the ever lovely lilsherlockian1975!_

* * *

The winter wind bit at her cheeks as she trudged through the snow along the quickly fading path. The footprints of students who are already returned to the castle were barely discernable in the drifting snow. Molly buried her face deeper into her thick blue and black striped scarf and soldiered on, her thick robes gathering a thick layer of snow along the hem.

'Molly! Molly, wait!'

She frowned at the faint call and looked over her shoulder in surprise to see a black blur struggling towards her. She felt her cheeks flush, and not from the cold, when she recognized her boyfriend beneath the scarf and, dear heavens, what was that _thing_ on his head?!

'What is that?!' Her eyes widened as soon as the words left her mouth. She hadn't meant to ask that, but when Sherlock jogged up to her side, she relaxed to hear his deep chuckle.

'It's a deerstalker, a muggle hat.' He grumbled and pulled on the fur-lined flaps that covered his ears. His curls burst out around the bottom of the strange hat and his usually pale cheeks were bright red, bringing her focus to his face and the brilliance of his eyes. 'Mycroft sent it to me as a practical joke this past Christmas.'

'You don't seem to be fond of it,' Molly noticed as they resumed their struggles back to the castle. 'Why not wear something else?'

Sherlock snorted and she looked at him in surprise. 'I would. But unfortunately, I neglected to bring my usual cap before leaving the dormitory this morning and this happened to be in the pocket of my robe. I am sure John was a part of this with Mycroft, hiding my old hat and charming this wretched thing to be unnoticed until I was desperate enough to use it to keep my ears from being frozen off.'

Molly frowned in confusion and they stepped into the outer corridors of the castle, relieved to be out of the bitter wind. 'A part of what? What's wrong with it?'

He sighed heavily and pulled her into a nearby alcove, looking around to make sure no one was watching. Molly watched in amusement while Sherlock tried to pry the hat from his head and failed miserably. He pouted as she dissolved into giggles.

'Molly, please refrain from laughing at my predicament and help me get this bloody thing off my head! I am due to meet with Professor Lestrade in less than an hour and I'd rather not have the man laugh at me while I'm asking him for a referral for the detective liaison position at the muggle New Scotland Yard!'

Molly bit her lip and tried to hold in her laughter as she pulled out her wand. 'What makes you think I can charm it off if _you_ can't?'

'Because you're Molly,' he replied. 'You always help me.'

She quirked an eyebrow.

'And you won't be able to run your fingers through my hair when we kiss unless you can get this _thing_ off my head!'

 _Ah. He has a point._ She narrowed her eyes and teased, 'Maybe I don't want to kiss you.'

'Mooooollleeeeee,' he whined, grabbing her waist and pulling her close. 'Please?' His bottom lip out, he softened his eyes and gave her the puppy-dog look that never failed to win her over.

Rolling her eyes fondly at him, she pressed a quick kiss to his lips and stepped back, raising her wand. Within two minutes, the hat was off his head. Sherlock shook out his curls and audibly groaned in relief.

'Now,' Molly said, sliding her arms over his shoulders and standing on her tiptoes. 'I believe I've earned myself a reward.'

Sherlock smirked as her fingers threaded through his now-free curls. He happily acquiesced to her request and pressed his lips to hers. Molly easily deepened the kiss and pulled his curls, causing his knees to shake momentarily. Taking advantage of his brief lapse in focus, Molly reached behind him and picked up the charmed deerstalker from the ledge Sherlock had dropped it on. Quickly pocketing it, she smiled into the kiss.

It might come in handy again someday.


	6. Late For A Very Important Date

_This is a fluffy little story for all you wonderful Sherlollians who have kept me going this past year as I've delved into the world of writing fanfiction! Thank you._

* * *

'We're almost an hour late, John! Hurry up!' The moment John brought the taxi they had commandeered to a sudden and screeching halt, Sherlock jumped out, John on his heels. He glanced up as they began running, only to freeze in horror at the man sprinting across the car park toward them, murder in his eyes.

'Vatican Cameos, John!' Sherlock cried out and hastily pushed John back toward the safety of the car, securing the locks for good measure.

'William Sherlock Scott Holmes!' Mycroft's normal cool composure was gone as he thundered across the car park, bellowing all the while. Sherlock knew he could easily overpower Mycroft, but he was currently sporting several bruised ribs and his head throbbed from the seven sutures John had stitched across the cut in his forehead.

The British Government was on the warpath and he slammed his hands on the window, his eyes alight with the icy fire that toppled nations. 'Get. Out. Of. The. Car,' he bit out. 'Now!'

'I rather think not, brother dear,' Sherlock replied. 'Molly prefers me in one piece.'

'You are late, covered in what appears to be the blood of three different men, and should probably have those ribs bandaged,' Mycroft growled. 'I should be the least of your worries when Molly does get ahold of you and finds out you took that case yesterday when she asked you not to.'

Sherlock swallowed thickly.

'Now, are you going to come willingly, or do I send out the security detail to break the window and drag you out?' Mycroft threatened and stood back. 'Might I remind you that the photographers would be delighted to have evidence of the Great Sherlock Holmes being dragged into his own wedding. Molly, though, will be less than thrilled. Especially after you've already left her waiting for 43 minutes…'

Sherlock scrambled to pull the lock up and threw himself from the car. But his beeline for the church, and his bride, was briefly impeded by Mycroft's fist connecting with his face.

'Son of a-!' Sherlock exclaimed, clutching his eye. 'Bloody Hell, Mycroft!'

John shot Mycroft a practiced glare before tugging Sherlock toward the church. 'Just add it to the list of injuries we can address after you say 'I do'.'

Mycroft stalked after them, rubbing his sore knuckles and hiding his sigh of relief that they had eventually made it. Molly had been relatively calm, but her cool had been breaking as the hour progressed and no one could reach John or Sherlock. He was rather fond of his sister-in-law-to-be and giving Sherlock a black eye for nearly standing her up was only a small justice.

* * *

Molly paced back and forth, the skirt of her white dress _swishing_ each time she turned about. Her bottom lip was nearly raw from gnawing on it and she was fast losing hope. She wasn't sure whether to be angry about Sherlock sneaking out the night before on a last-minute case or worried about him being missing. For now, she settled on the latter.

'I'm sure they're fine,' Mary assured her. The Matron of Honor was trying to be the rock for them both, but with her husband also missing, she was in the same state as Molly.

Molly barely acknowledged her tries at reassurance, moving on to twisting the folds of her dress in anxiety. Their increasingly melancholy thoughts were interrupted by a clamoring out in the hall. Mary stood and went to look out, her entire body sagging in relief when she saw Sherlock and John rushing about.

'Ah, it appears our boys have arrived, though in far worse condition than when we left them.'

Relief flooded her body. He was okay. He was alive.

And he was late.

Molly gathered her voluminous skirts and marched out the door, letting her anger loose.

'Molly, he can't see you before the ceremony! It's bad luck!' Mary cried out and tried to block Molly's way.

'I don't give a damn about superstition,' the bride replied and pushed past, zeroing in on her husband-to-be. His back was to her as his father and John tried to put his rumpled appearance to rights. With each step she took, she more clearly saw the damage her husband was trying to cover and felt her anger begin to fade into horror.

John noticed her first, over Sherlock's shoulder, and nudged his friend. Sherlock turned around in surprise and Molly gasped at his face, her heart dropping. Dirt covered and sweaty, he had a long cut above his left eyebrow that looked to have been hastily sutured and his right eye was beginning to show signs of swelling. Dropping her skirts, she raced the last few feet and launched herself into his arms, uncaring of the dirt and blood on his clothes against her white dress. He caught her with one arm, keeping the other tight across his torso, and let out an _oomph_ when she collided with him.

Tears pricked her eyes and she sniffled against his shoulder. 'Are you okay?'

He pressed his face into the curve of her neck. 'I am now.'

'W-what happened?' She pulled back and cupped his cheeks, examining the injuries he'd sustained and noting the way he held his ribs.

'Just some overeager drug lords looking for a new home base in London. Nothing to worry about,' he reassured her. Smiling smugly, he added, 'Well, not anymore. Their injuries were much more substantial, if I do say so myself.'

Molly's eyes hardened and she stiffened in his arms.

'Oi, mate,' John interrupted. 'Not the time to be an arrogant prick.'

'Ah, right.' Sherlock's smirk softened to a sheepish grin and he turned on the puppy dog eyes as he looked down at his unamused bride. 'Forgive me for being a bit tardy? And for sneaking out to take a case after you asked me not to?'

Molly breathed in deeply and tugged him down to face level. 'Yes. But you'd better make the rest of our lives worth it.'

'I certainly intend to.' Sherlock chuckled, his smile pained as his ribs protested the action.

With a kiss to his cheek, she stepped away with a smile. 'Go get cleaned up so we can move this wedding along.'

He pouted and followed her. 'Don't I even get a proper Glad You're Not Dead kiss first?'

'Nope. If you'd been on time, we would already be married and sneaking away for some 'alone time' in the nearest closet,' she quipped cheekily. 'Suffer.'

Sherlock groaned as he watched her sashay away, the back of her dress dipping to her mid-back and her hair piled high on her head, giving him a delightful view of the sensuous curve of her neck.

The door clicked shut behind her and he whirled about to the gaping onlookers, furiously rubbing the dirt from his face. 'Get me another suit. _Now_.'


	7. The Wedding of Georgina Holmes

**(or How Sherlock Holmes learns the hard way not to mess with the bride)**

 _A prompt from the fantastic Buttercup59 for a Father of the Bride AU._

'Where is she? Her flight landed twenty minutes ago,' Sherlock complained and tried to see over the throng of people milling around them.

Molly reached over and threaded her arm through his to calm him, her tone fondly exasperated. 'She has to get through customs, love. Be grateful we're not waiting for her to come through US customs. We'd be waiting for hours.'

Sherlock huffed and pulled out his mobile. He was just about to press the dial button to call her when Molly let go of him with a soft exclamation.

'Georgina!'

His head whipped up and he felt his heart catch at the sight of the familiar black curls bouncing towards him. He breathed a sigh of relief and followed his wife as they shouldered their way through the crowd. As they got closer, he slowed down when he saw a young man following closely behind his daughter. Molly swept Georgina into her arms, identical smiles on their faces. Sherlock ran his gaze over the man and felt something settle uncomfortably in his stomach at what he read.

'Daddy!' Georgina had let go of Molly only to run over to him and tackle him. Immediately forgetting the man, Sherlock grinned and, on impulse, twirled his daughter about like he had done when she was a child. She shrieked in surprise and laughed, the sound warming his heart. He had missed her these past three months. America was too far away and he'd be damned if she ever left London again.

Finally setting her down, he glanced up to see Molly shaking the man's hand, a bright smile on her face. He glowered. Did she not know that the young man had designs on their daughter? It was clear from the dilated pupils when the man looked at Georgina and the familiar way his fingers threaded through hers to tug her to his side! Sherlock froze in horror as one more deduction crossed his mind. This _boy_ had seen Sherlock's daughter naked! His fists clenched at his sides and it was only because he knew it would be a bit not good to level the boy to the ground that he restrained his urge to clobber the idiot.

Through clenched teeth, he snarled, 'Who is this?'

Molly was immediately at his side, reading the tenseness in his shoulders and knowing that the last time he spoke in that tone, he had ended up breaking Mycroft's nose for letting Georgina eat sweets before dinner. She hooked her arm through his and held herself tight to his side as Georgina looked up at the _idiot_ adoringly.

'Mum, Dad, this is Nicholas…' Georgina turned to them, her eyes hazy with what Sherlock could only assume was belated adolescent hormones. '…my fiancé.'

Molly gasped in delight, even as Sherlock's eyes widened and he felt the ground beneath him cave in. Georgina was barely twenty-two and this… this… this _idiot_ was trying to steal her away! 'What?' He hissed and took a threatening step toward the _idiot._ The soon-to-be impotent idiot, if Sherlock had his way.

'Nicholas Burke, Mister Holmes.' The _idiot_ extended his hand in greeting, clearly too stupid to see that he was one more inappropriate look at Sherlock's daughter away from castration.

'Lovely to meet you,' Molly interjected before Sherlock could say anything and shook the idiot's hand. She shot her husband a warning glance telling him without words to keep a lid on whatever deductions and threats he wanted to make. 'Let's get your luggage and get home, okay? Then we can get the whole story and get to know you, Nicholas.'

Sherlock shot her a dirty glare, but her return scowl cowed him into petulant silence as he trailed behind them to luggage claim, listening to Georgina's and Molly's gushing chatter. He glared at the back of the _idiot's_ blonde head and imagined all the ways he could kill him on the way to Baker Street. He had come up with thirty-seven by the time they were climbing into the car Mycroft had provided. Georgina and Nicholas sat across from the elder couple and the fierce protectiveness Sherlock had fostered for his daughter since before she had even been born grew tenfold as he watched her interact with her… _fian…_ no, he couldn't even think the word.

'So, Ni _ck_ ,' Sherlock interrupted the women's conversation, nearly choking on the last syllable of the _idiot's_ name. 'How long have you been shagging my daughter?'

'Daddy!'

'Sherlock!'

He ignored the indignant outbursts from Molly and Georgina, only tilting his head and raising his eyebrows in expectation. Nicholas flushed deep red and blinked rapidly, a bead of sweat forming on his temple and he subconsciously shifted away from Georgina. 'I-uh, we haven't… not long, just…'

Georgina squeezed his hand and shot a dirty glare at her father, one he knew she had learned from him. Her eyes, so like his own, were filled with anger and she leaned into the idiot purposefully. 'Don't answer him, Nicholas. He's just being a jerk.'

'Don't insult me, young lady,' Sherlock snapped. Molly gripped his knee tightly in warning. A warning he ignored. 'You come home from a three month assignment for New Scotland Yard with a fiancé attached to your hip. A man you have never mentioned before who comes from a middle class _American_ family,' he scoffed at the very idea of her consorting with an American. 'He is of average intelligence, at best, something you must know, being the product of my own brilliant mind. He has no redeeming qualities that would make him a suitable spouse, from his unbelievable ordinariness to his delusional desire to pursue a woman well out of his 'league,' as they say. So you must be having copious amounts of satisfying intercourse in order to consider a legal union as the best option instead of breaking up when your assignment ended and you had to return to London.'

Molly sighed beside him and slid her arm from his to cross them over her chest. Nicholas was sweating profusely, but instead of cowering under Sherlock's deductions, he sat up straighter and stared firmly back at the Consulting Detective in a futile show of bravery.

But it was Georgina's reaction that told Sherlock he had most definitely gone too far. Her eyes were locked on his and an icy anger radiated from her stiff figure. Sherlock had often thought she took after Molly in temperament and him in intelligence. But at this moment, he could only see himself in the way she glowered at him, a cold mask of anger on her pale features.

The rest of the ride to Baker Street was spent in tense silence. Molly refused to look at him, but he could feel the disappointment pouring off her in waves. Nicholas was staring out the window at the new sights, but his attention was on Georgina, his thumb rubbing soft circles in her palm. Sherlock didn't relish the thought, but he begrudgingly acknowledged that the _idiot_ was attuned to Georgina's need for her own space to think, while still giving her whatever comfort he could; something Molly did for him. Georgina refused to look away from him, her glare unwavering. She hadn't responded to his remarks, letting her anger and disappointment speak through her silence.

When the car finally pulled up to the curb alongside, Georgina quickly slid out, pulling Nicholas behind her. Molly turned to him before he could climb out and gripped his hand.

'Sherlock, look at me,' she whispered. He sat back, but didn't obey, knowing he would see the disappointment in the brown eyes he loved so much, something he had worked so hard and had succeeded in preventing for many years. A hand cupped his jaw and turned his face until he was forced to look down at her. She smiled softly at him, not a trace of disappointment in her gaze, just understanding.

'Give him a chance, sweetheart.' She brushed a curl from his forehead. 'Look what loving me did for you. You're happy, at least I hope you are.' She smiled when he nodded. 'Perhaps that's what he will do for her. When was the last time we saw her so unencumbered by her genius? Not since she was a child.'

'But to _marry him?!_ ' He retorted incredulously.

Molly shook her head and smiled. 'Let's get to know him before we decide against him as Georgina's husband.'

 _Georgina's husband._ Sherlock felt himself pale at the thought, a sick feeling weighing in his gut.

Georgina and the idiot were still struggling to pull their luggage from the boot when Molly and Sherlock finally climbed from the car. Sherlock, with a not-so-subtle hint from Molly, took over for Georgina and helped the idiot tug the bags free. Hauling straps and bags across his back and shoulders, Sherlock paused for a moment to wonder when he had gone from being the world's only Consulting Detective to being the pack mule for his daughter's ridiculous number of shoes and extensive lab equipment.

The idiot was in much the same condition, the bags bumping his legs as they followed the women into the flat. Molly was fussing over Georgina and immediately insisting she freshen up with a change of clothes after their long flight while she fixed them some tea. Sherlock dumped the bags in the middle of the room and caught Georgina's arm when she made to walk past him toward the idiot.

Her eyes flashed angrily and she glared up at him.

'Gina, I–'

'Don't,' she snapped and jerked her arm from his grasp, ignoring the soft use of her pet name. 'Just… don't.'

She grabbed a smaller bag from the floor and marched over to the idiot, who slowly set his bags down and followed her out to the landing and up the stairs to her room. The door slammed loudly behind them, the sound physically making Sherlock's heart ache. As much as he detested the idea of the _idiot_ stealing away his sweet, innocent daughter ( _innocent?!_ A scoffing voice that sounded very much like John Watson echoed in his mind, but he brushed it aside), he knew he would have to make allowances for said _idiot_ in his home for a while.


	8. Of Bitter Words and Broken Hearts

_This is for the fantastic ElenneM, who asked for an angsty fic with a happy ending. Hope I did it justice, my dear!_

* * *

The door slammed shut, the sound echoing throughout the flat, and settling heavy on Molly's heart. She could hear Sherlock's retreat down the stairs and out into the night. She wanted to move, to run after him, to run to the window and call him back, to do something other than stand and hear her own words echo in her mind.

 _'_ _It was our_ anniversary _, Sherlock. Does that mean nothing to you?'_

 _'_ _If you had told me, I wouldn't have taken the case!'_

 _'_ _You have a bloody Mind Palace! Isn't there a calendar in the damn thing? Why do I have to remind you?'_

Slowly, she moved into the kitchen, as though in a stupor. Her body went through the motions of putting on the kettle, but her mind and heart were numb. It was their first anniversary as a couple. She knew Sherlock was not adept at social cues and norms, she loved him for it, usually getting a little laugh whenever he stumbled and having him shut her up with a kiss.

But today was supposed to be special. And he'd forgotten.

 _'_ _We can celebrate it tomorrow, I'll take you out to Angelo's. I'll buy you a present. I'll even beg Mycroft for tickets to that play you wanted to see!'_

 _'_ _That's not what I want, Sherlock!'_

 _'_ _Well, what_ do _you want? Because I can't read minds, Molly! I know you think I can, but this… this sentiment is not my area! Just tell me!'_

She pulled her usual cup and saucer from its spot. Without really paying attention, she poured the tea into the cup and added cream and sugar. Sitting at the table, she slowly stirred it. The fight had unleashed a thousand other little fights that had been building up. All the annoyances and aggravations and insecurities that they had kept bottled up for twelve months had been poured out on the other in that one fight.

 _'_ _I don't expect you to be Mr Darcy, but for once, for_ once _, I'd like to think I rate higher than a 7!'_

 _'_ _You… you think I put cases before you?! And who the hell is this Darcy fellow? One of your numerous ex-lovers? Did you sleep with him like you did with_ Jim from IT? _'_

 _'_ _He's a fictional chara-How dare you! You know I did not sleep with Jim!'_

 _'_ _You have to admit, you've been a bit promiscuous in the past. The third date is the magic number right? And considering you and I slept together before we even went out once… Well, it was a logical conclusion.'_

 _'_ _Well, you're wrong. And of the two of us, you're the promiscuous one, with your perfectly tailored clothes, coiffed hair, and, oh, that night in Karachi with a_ dominatrix _! At least my sexual relationships have been with people I care for and not just a meaningless shag!'_

The tea was growing cold while Molly stirred absentmindedly, leaning on the table and resting her head in her hand. The ache in her chest was growing with every minute that passed as her mind taunted her with her own careless words.

 _'_ _Just because I use my appearance to my advantage does not make me promiscuous. At least I don't hide behind baggy trousers and hideous jumpers because I'm afraid that no one will like me 'just for who I am' and can blame it on the clothes!'_

 _'_ _You may be beautiful in appearance, Sherlock Holmes, but that means nothing when your heart is cold and unfeeling! My god, you're practically a machine!'_

Her heart clenched painfully as her shock faded and she hiccupped a sob, dropping her head onto the table as the tears finally came.

A machine. She'd called him a machine.

She could still see the hurt and betrayal hit him as her words fell between them. His anger vanished in an instant and all she could see was the naïve little boy inside staring back at her with heartbreak written across his face.

Suddenly, none of it seemed important. None of the little irritations she'd hoarded, none of the insecurities she'd held onto, none of her hurt over the forgotten anniversary, none of it mattered as Sherlock shuttered his eyes and strode from the flat, slamming the door in his wake.

What had she done?

* * *

The park bench was cold and unforgiving. A lot like him, Sherlock mused, burrowing deeper into the coat he'd never gotten a chance to take off. Night had fallen long ago, the city transitioning from day workers to night life. But the usual hum that filled his rattling mind with peace was nowhere to be found, replaced with a chorus of words… well, one word.

Machine.

He clenched his jaw and fought back the tears that pricked his eyes. He wasn't prone to sentimental cliché, sneering at those romantic comedies and dramas Molly loved so much. But to hear from the woman he loved and lived with, that she thought he was a machine… suddenly he understood why heroes and heroines in those movies acted as they did, why they cried or stormed out or withdrew. The hurt that one person can inflict with a single word, the one person you trusted above all others to _not_ break you, was devastating.

No, not devastating.

That was too small a word.

It felt as though his blood had run cold and his lungs would never fill again, his heart caught in a vice of pain, crushing him until he couldn't bear to look at her any longer.

A small portion of his mind argued that he _had_ forgotten their anniversary and that she was justified in her anger. But he knew it was more than just the anniversary that escalated the fight. It was all her insecurities and his, all the stress of trying to live together and compromise, every little thing they did that irritated the other, all of it wrapped up tight until suddenly set loose tonight.

He closed his eyes and sighed. Sentiment, caring, love… it wasn't worth this pain.

* * *

The night was lightening, thick fog settling over the park, when Sherlock finally stood and made his way back home. No sound came from the flat above him when he stepped inside the foyer and quietly climbed the stairs. The door to 221b was closed, slightly splintered along the doorframe from when he'd slammed it. Taking a deep breath, he twisted the knob and stepped inside.

Nothing had changed since he had left. Molly's present for him still sat, unopened, on the kitchen table, next to the meal she'd set out in hopes he'd be home in time to eat it, which had long since gone cold. A cup and saucer, however, sat next to the sink, filled with tea but undrunk.

He glanced down the hall to see their bedroom door propped open. Slowly, he walked over and peered inside.

The bed hadn't been slept in and there no sign of Molly from what he could see. Opening the door all the way, he stepped inside. He glanced around and was about to leave when he caught a flash of brown hair at the foot of the bed.

Exhaling, he walked over and looked down at his girlfriend, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs and her face buried in her knees. With a slight grunt, he sat down beside her, his legs stretched out in front of him and his back against the bed.

Molly turned her face toward him, her eyes rimmed red with exhaustion and tears, and he felt some of his hurt fade at the sorrow in her expression. He pursed his lips and stared straight ahead. She had hurt him deeply and he wasn't going to let her big brown eyes weaken his resolve to be angry.

They sat in silence for a time, the rising sun slowly illuminating the floor before them.

'You know I don't think you're a machine,' Molly finally said, her voice hoarse from crying and exhaustion.

Sherlock nodded once and flicked his gaze over to her. 'But you still said it. And in that moment, you truly believed it.'

Sniffling, she pressed her lips against her arm and wiped her fresh tears against the sleeve of her dressing gown. 'I'm so sorry. I was… I was just so _angry_ and _hurt_ that you'd forgotten-'

'This wasn't just about our anniversary,' he interrupted, finally turning to look at her. 'Was it? This was about all the annoying things we do that we've been holding back from each other.'

She closed her eyes and pulled her legs closer. 'Yeah.'

He sighed. 'So what do we do?'

She shrugged. 'Either we work it out and find a way to move past this… or we break up.'

He would have to be blind, or Anderson, to miss the stark fear on her face. He would do anything to never see that again.

Slowly, he reached over and trailed his hand along her arm, threading his fingers through hers. She swallowed and looked up at him in hesitant belief.

'Then we work things out. Because breaking up with you will _never_ be an option.'


	9. The Idiot's Guide to Romance

**_Lesson 1: Compliment Her_**

 _'... go beyond the overused flattery of appearance. Pay attention to what she changes about herself and then let her know you've noticed the change and like it. Build her confidence in herself as a woman; attractive, desirable, and feminine.'_

Sherlock sat hunched over the bench, pretending to be utterly absorbed in the (empty) slide on the microscope stand, but never breaking his attention away from the woman fluttering about around him. Her hair piled in a high ponytail and not a trace of makeup on, Molly was now completely at ease with his presence in the lab, not even speaking to him, as if he wasn't even there; a nice change from her bumbling and stuttering of years past. But eventually Sherlock began to miss the way she would blush at the briefest eye contact with him, the way her pupils would dilate and her breathing would deepen. He missed being the object of her desire. Because now he was in her shoes, pining after someone who seemed to be ignorant of his very existence.

And he was determined to win back her affection.

She brushed past him with a pile of papers and he caught of whiff of clean linen perfume tinged with the scent of formaldehyde and the lingering traces of lemon handsoap.

'New perfume, Molly?'

She plopped the papers down on the table behind him. 'Mmm,' she hummed. He watched her reflection in the glass cabinets in front of him. She tucked a strand of hair that had escaped behind her ear and began filling out the papers.

'It's nice. Suits you.' He smirked to himself, confident the smooth compliment would endear him back into her good graces.

'Thank you,' she replied distractedly, turning a page over and beginning the next one. Sherlock frowned at her reflection. There was no tittering, no blushing. Barely an acknowledgement for a compliment that previously would have won him several livers and a lung.

He abandoned the microscope and swept from the lab without another word.

* * *

 ** _Lesson 2: Be a Gentleman_**

 _'...nothing charms a woman like being treated like a princess. So, kiss her cheek in greeting, hold her chair out for her at restaurants, listen to her talk about her day and respond appropriately, hold the door open for her, help her into her coat... find little things that make her feel special, then do them.'_

Sherlock shifted back and forth on his heels, anxiously waiting for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Molly would be coming home from her shift in the next forty-two seconds and he was ready to be gallant and open the door for her, his hand already gripping the handle.

His ears perked up at the distinct shuffling in the hallway and the jangle of keys. He waited until she was just outside the door, before opening it wide with a beaming smile.

'Son of a-!' Molly shrieked as she stumbled back from the door in shock, struggling to hold onto an overstuffed bag of groceries that was now threatening to escape her clutches. After fumbling for a few seconds, she managed to keep it right side up. Almost. Sherlock was frozen in horror as the carton of eggs sitting at the very top teetered precariously before tipping over the side, crashing to the ground in a yolky splatter.

He stared at the mess, wondering when his 'luck' had turned so... rotten.

Slowly, he raised his gaze to her face, pulling his best 'innocent puppy' face. But it didn't faze Molly's anger. Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned as she wordlessly stalked past him into her flat. Within ten seconds, she was shoving a bucket of cleaning supplies into his hands and pushing him out into the hallway.

'Clean it up and buy me another dozen. And swear you'll never pick my lock again, _then_ you can come back.' With a flick of her wrist, she slammed the door on him, leaving him to wonder how things had gone so wrong.

* * *

 ** _Lesson 3: Buy Her Flowers_**

'Who are those for?'

Sherlock ignored John's question as he handed over a wad of bills to the flower vendor on the corner, the freshest, biggest bouquet of crimson roses in his other hand.

'They're for Molly, aren't they?' John teased as he hurried along after Sherlock on the crowded London street. The detective increased his pace in retaliation, smirking when John's smugness faded into irritation as he nearly had to jog to keep up. 'What's the next step when this doesn't work? Groveling?'

Sherlock shot him a nasty look and John laughed, a bit breathless as Sherlock once more sped up.

The doctor was taking great delight in Sherlock's frustration over the pathologist's apparently disappearing feelings. John knew for a fact that Molly was still deeply in love with the detective, but was wary and hurt after years of having her emotions played with. He felt she was justified in letting the man suffer a bit.

By the time they reached the doors to the morgue, John was a panting mess. Smiling smugly, Sherlock abandoned him in the hallway to regain his breath and burst through the double doors, a beaming smile to greet Molly, only to come to an abrupt halt, his smile falling along with his heart.

Her back to him, Molly was oblivious to his entrance, her attention caught by another man whom she was standing far too close to for it to be anything less than intimate.

Sherlock felt his stomach churn at the sight of her and Graham Lestrade, her hands between them, obviously touching the DI's chest and his hands on her shoulders. Her quiet, hesitant laughter drifted over to him, barely noticeable over the rushing in his ears. The DI was smiling down at her, softly, and murmuring something unintelligible.

The flowers fell from Sherlock's hand, landing on the floor in a soft rush of wind and crinkled paper and setting a few petals free. Gavin looked up at the sound and his eyes widened when he saw Sherlock standing there. His gaze flicked down to the bouquet on the floor. He instantly took a step back from Molly, who noticed his attention had shifted and started to turn around to look.

Sherlock immediately spun on his heel and rushed out the door, past a confused John, leaving the lovers behind and the evidence of his feelings on the cold, laminate floor.

* * *

Three pints of chocolate ice cream and an entire package of biscuits later, Sherlock was nearly comatose on the sofa, contemplating suing the entire damn romance movie genre for lying to him about the healing effects of 'comfort food.' The ache in his heart had not eased and now his stomach was betraying him.

Groaning, he weakly lifted his arm and draped it dramatically over his eyes.

'Sherlock?'

He peeked out from underneath his arm at the soft voice. Molly stood in the doorway to 221b, her eyes wide in concern, the bouquet of somewhat mangled flowers clutched to her chest. _Ah, this must be a sugar-induced hallucination. Best not interact with it._

Slowly, so as not to upset his stomach further, he rolled onto his side and curled into a ball against the back of the couch, burrowing his head into his chest.

The hallucination came closer, her soft footsteps careful as she picked her way through the empty cartons littering the floor. The coffee table scraped against the floor as the hallucination sat down. The crinkling of paper. _She must have set the flowers down._

'Sherlock?'

He lifted his arm half-heartedly and waved her away before tugging his dressing gown tighter around his body.

'If you're not going to speak with me, then at least listen,' the hallucination said softly. 'John explained everything to me. The book, the compliments, the egg incident… the flowers.'

'Traitor,' Sherlock muttered darkly. Even in his hallucinations, John meddled.

'There's nothing going on between Greg and myself,' the hallucination continued. Despite knowing it wasn't real, Sherlock's ears perked up and his heart lightened considerably. Maybe this was the benefit of comfort food, eating until you're out of your mind on a sugar-high, and you can hallucinate your happy ending. 'We were looking at the body of Mister Damaclese, who died from a serious allergic reaction to cat dander, which is remarkable considering he has three cats of his own and had never shown any signs of allergies before, and I thought it might be a cover-up… and I'm getting away from myself, sorry.'

He smiled fondly at her rambling, delusion or not.

'Well, Greg was still leaning over to look at the needle marks I found on the man's clavicle when I straightened up and accidentally elbowed him in the gut. I felt so bad, but he hugged me and said it was fine, he's had worse wrestling with his kids. That must have been when you came in.'

Sherlock ran through what he had seen and compared it with the hallucination's explanation. It seemed to line up with both the scenario and the personalities of his two friends.

Too bad it was just a hallucination.

'I'm not interested in Greg, Sherlock. He's... he's like my brother.' The hallucination just kept going, toying with his fragile grip on sanity. 'I... I love you, I always have. There will never be anyone but you.'

His heart clenched painfully. 'I love you, too,' he whispered. 'I just wish you knew that.'

Suddenly, a small, but strong hand gripped his shoulder. He froze, then jerked his head around. He stared at the very real hand, attached to a very real arm, attached to a very real Molly, whose eyes were wide and filled with... happy tears? _John warned me about those._

He blinked rapidly and sat up, trying to reconcile what he'd believed to be a hallucination with reality.

'You're real?' He hadn't meant it to sound like a question, but he was finding it hard to believe. The sugar was doing quite the number on his mental faculties.

Molly froze for a moment in surprise, then snorted, a tear escaping down her cheek. 'Of course I'm real, you idiot.'

He swallowed thickly. 'Oh.'

Then that meant... what she said about love... was real.

 _Oh._ His heart suddenly felt lighter than air, the sudden rush of relief and disbelief rendering him mute.

She stared at him expectantly. Slowly, a blush crept up her cheeks as he continued to stare at her in dumbfounded silence.

Her hands twisted in her lap as she waited, biting her lip. Finally, she must have given up waiting, because she exhaled deeply and rolled her eyes with a smile.

'You can ask me out now, you know. For dinner, then an experiment or two? Maybe cap it off with a snog?' She winked cheekily.

Sherlock broke out of his daze. 'Oh, yes, of course, let's… let's do that. The dinner part first, since you haven't eaten since breakfast.' She blushed at his accusatory deduction. 'Anything but chocolate ice cream, though,' he moaned, his stomach roiling at the sight of the cartons on the floor.

She smiled sympathetically and stood, holding out her hand to him. 'How do fish and chips sound?'

'Bearable,' he replied as he stood up and, taking her hand, immediately pulled her toward the door. 'We'll pick some up on our way to Mycroft's office.'

'What?!' Molly squeaked in complete confusion he led her out into the street and hailed a cab, the sleeves of his dressing gown falling down his arm as he raised his other hand. To her surprise, a cab immediately pulled over.

'Sherlock, why are we going to Mycroft's office?' She hissed as he opened the door and waited expectantly for her to get in first.

Sherlock looked at her innocently, as though it was a common practice for him to rush out into the London street in his pyjamas and dressing gown, dragging a pathologist behind him. 'The final lesson: I need to get into his safe.'

 **Lesson 4: Commit**

'...in the immortal words of Beyoncé: boys, if you like it _'put a ring on it'.'_


	10. Catch Me If I Fall

The rain was pouring steadily down on the crowd, their cheers barely rising above the distant sound of thunder. The Quidditch match was coming to a close, at least Molly hoped so, she didn't know how much longer she could stay on her broom. She hovered in front of the three Hufflepuff hoops, her black and yellow robes weighing her down as she kept an eye on the Quaffle as it passed from player to player, their brooms spraying water as they zipped through the air.

The Ravenclaw seeker flew by, a blur of black and blue. She watched as Sherlock wove in and out of players, looking for the glint of gold in the downpour. Molly cursed the rain for hindering his, until now, impeccable Seeking abilities. Normally, she would not wish a loss on her Hufflepuff teammates, but she was cold, wet, and exhausted. And she just wanted the game to end. By the grumbling of the rest of the players, they agreed with her sentiment.

The players had gathered over by the Ravenclaw hoops, the commentator crying out another point for Hufflepuff, when it happened. A large black object came shooting out of the sheets of rain directly at her. With no time to react, the Bludger hit her shoulder, knocking her back with a burst of pain.

The world tilted and her stomach churned as she was flipped backwards. The horrified gasps of those few who witnessed it were lost in the sudden rush of adrenaline, her heart pumping furiously as the world righted itself, only she was no longer atop her broom, but hanging on with one hand desperately gripping the wet handle. She reached up, trying to catch the handle with her other hand, but the slippery wood wasn't cooperating. Her stomach roiled in fear as her hand slipped slightly and her feet dangled in the air helplessly, the weight of her sopping wet robes pulling her down.

'No, no, no, no, no,' she whispered frantically. She closed her eyes just as her grip failed and she plummeted to the ground, the wind beating against her as she screamed. She braced herself for impact, already anticipating the bliss of unconsciousness, when she was suddenly snatched out of the air, an arm tight around her waist, holding her against a firm chest.

'I've got you,' the familiar baritone voice rumbled over her, sending warmth through her chilled body. She clutched at Sherlock's robes, her hands shaking and tears mixing with the raindrops coursing down her cheeks. Gently setting down on the field, Sherlock easily scooped his arm underneath her legs and hauled her up against his chest, leaving his broom abandoned on the grass. She cried out in pain at the jostling of her injured shoulder.

Madam Pomfrey bustled out onto the field while the rest of the players touched down and looked over Molly once before ushering her to the hospital wing.

Molly made to leave Sherlock's hold, reluctantly, but he held fast. She looked up at him as he started the trek back to the castle. 'Sherlock, it's my shoulder that's hurt, not my legs.'

He glanced down at her, but didn't say anything, his eyes softening briefly from their usual piercing coldness. She felt her entire body flush at the worry and concern in his gaze. Biting her lip, she relented and rested her head in the curve of his neck. And when she felt his lips press gently against the crown of her head, she smiled.


	11. Pride and Deductions

Molly's feet flew down the stairs, her hair coming out of its simple chignon in wisps as she gripped her skirts and walked away as fast as propriety allowed. She was almost to the edge of the patio, her escape in sight, when a deep voice beckoned her to stop.

'Miss Molly!'

She closed her eyes in defeat. Knowing politeness required her to acknowledge the call, as much as she wished to ignore it, she slowed to a stop and turned around, her cheeks burning in humiliation.

His boots clacking against the stone floor, Mr Holmes strode toward her, his expression dark. His curls hung loose around over his forehead, giving him an almost childlike look, were it not for the dashing figure he cut in his waistcoat and tails. Against her will, Molly felt her heart begin to race, and not from the excitement of being caught in his home.

'I-I thought you were in London,' she stammered, twisting her hands in front of her and barely able to make eye contact with him. His piercing eyes never left her face and she found herself warming under his perusal.

He stopped just a few feet from her. 'No. No, I'm not.'

Biting her lip, she looked down at her hands. 'Right, obviously.'

They stood in silence for a moment, only to begin speaking at the same time.

'I would not have come-'

'I solved the case early-'

Molly bit the inside of her cheek and turned her face away. Was she always meant to humiliate herself in front of this man? He didn't say anything more, only watching her until, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze upon her any longer, she burst out, 'I'm so sorry, they said that you were away and the estate was open for visitors. I would not have i-intruded if I had known…'

She trailed off as he simply continued to stare at her. She had not seen him since that awful day at his aunt's estate where it came out that he had separated her dear friend Mary from a potential marriage to his friend John, all because he felt that such a marriage could only end in the good doctor's heartbreak, as Mary seemed only interested in John's status and title.

Only for him to turn around that very same day and propose to her, claiming that despite her small stature, moderately appealing features, and lack of familial ties, he found himself in love with her, against his better judgement.

Her harsh words of refusal still haunted her, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. And the letter he wrote to her explaining his actions, actions she now understood but did not condone, weighted her pocket, ready to be read once more.

And them to see him now, so unexpectedly, when her own feelings were so jumbled, his face a cool mask but his eyes burning into her and setting a fire in her heart… it was all the more confusing. She desperately needed to leave.

Her thoughts were clearly read on her face, for Mr Holmes finally spoke up in response to her desire to leave.

'I assume you are staying with Miss Morstan's family in the village. May I see you back?'

'No!' she exclaimed, flushing at her own zealous refusal. 'No, thank you. I… I do so enjoy walking.'

He acknowledged her excuse with a curt nod, though never breaking his gaze.

'Good day, Mr Holmes,' she said with a forced sweetness and overly bright smile as she curtsied. Spinning on her heel, she walked quickly away, head held high, feeling the weight of his gaze upon her until she was out of sight of the estate.

Only then, did her heartbeat slow.


	12. When We're Together

**A Series of Adventures in Dating**

 _Inspired by the lyrics of When We're Together by Mark Harris_

* * *

 **I'd like to sail to lands afar… Out on a boat that's built for two**

'This is all your fault.'

Molly glared at Sherlock incredulously. 'My fault?! If I recall, I was against this whole idea, but you insisted!'

The detective reached up and readjusted his hold on the keel, his hands scrambling to hold the slippery wood. He glared at Molly over the curve of the capsized rowboat. 'You wanted a romantic date!'

'Romantic, not disastrous!' Molly shouted. She stretched her arm, kicking her legs hard to get a higher grip 'I would have been ecstatic with a candlelit dinner at Angelo's without you complaining about the 'overly sentimental ambience'!'

Their argument was interrupted by the sound of a motor chugging around the bend in the river. They both turned to see a New Scotland Yard police boat heading their way, Lestrade at the helm and a laughing grin on his tanned face.

Sherlock dropped his head against the capsized canoe with a groan.

* * *

 **Beneath a canopy of stars… that would be just like a dream come true**

Molly shivered and tucked her chin into the blanket. 'If they weren't frozen, my fingers would be around your neck right now.'

'Mmmmph,' Sherlock grumbled in reply from his own cocoon. The wind battered them, turning their cheeks red and making their eyes water.

Molly huddled deeper into her blanket and shot him a dirty look. 'Why are we here? Can't we go back inside? Sit by a nice fire, sip some tea… you know, not die of hypothermia?'

'Just wait.'

She rolled her eyes at his impatient tone, but was pacified when he slipped his arm out and moved her in front of him, leaning down slightly and wrapping her in his blanket. Molly smiled, warmer and content, and leaned back in his embrace.

'There!' Sherlock suddenly pointed at the clear night sky. Molly followed his line of sight and gasped in delight. Across the stars, multiple streaks of light began to rain down, their trains lingering in the sky.

'Is that…?'

'The Perseids,' Sherlock finished for her. 'A common annual meteor phenomena named from its apparent source in the constellation Perseus. Though what idiot thought that particular formation of stars looks like a man…'

Molly sighed happily and rested her head against his chest as the meteors rained down around them, the cold completely forgotten as his voice rumbled over her.

* * *

 **I'd like a castle on a hill… Where you and I could spend the day**

'Sherlock, get down!'

The detective threw himself to the ground at John's disembodied command just as a volley of arrows flew through the air where he had just been. He turned onto his back just in time to see the three hooded figures draw their bows back once more.

Scrambling to his feet, he ran down the hall toward an open door a hand reaching out and jerking him around the corner just as another round of arrows whipped passed. He stumbled into his rescuer, nearly knocking them both to the stone floor. Molly steadied him and grabbed his hand, tugging it behind her as they broke into a sprint.

'Hurry up!' John shouted from down the corridor, holding a large door open. Stitches in their sides, Molly and Sherlock raced toward safety, slipping inside and slamming the door closed. A trio of metallic thuds vibrated against the wood seconds later.

''Come to Scotland',' Molly sang in a false baritone as they scrambled down the winding stone staircase. ''It'll be fun. We'll visit some castles. You and Mary can do that shopping thing women do.''

'Is it my fault they're using this place as a secret drug courier hideout?!' Sherlock spat back.

Molly glanced back at him with a withering glare. 'One holiday, Sherlock! One holiday without getting shot at! That's all I ask!'

'But they're ninja archers, Molly!'

'Now's not the time, lovebirds!' John shouted over his shoulder, just as the door above them banged open with a thunderous crash.

* * *

 **And I'd love to go where time stands still… And all that doesn't matter fades away**

Baker Street was an utter disaster. Molly froze in the doorway, her mouth dropping open at the mess in front of her. Tissues littered every available surface, half-filled bowls and cups were stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, and there was a familiar Sherlock-sized lump on the sofa, buried beneath a mountain of blankets.

Dropping her work bag at her feet, she picked her way over to the lump and, shoving aside a pile of dishes and sitting on the edge of the table.

'Sherlock?' She whispered, pulling back the edge of the topmost blanket. Ruffled curls peeked out and a muffled groan sounded from somewhere underneath. 'Sherlock, are you sick?'

The blankets shifted as he turned over and tugged them down away from his pale face. 'What gave it away?'

'Oh, dear,' Molly tsked and brushed a hand across his feverish forehead. 'Why didn't you call? I could have taken off a shift or two.'

'D'nt wan to be a probl'm,' he sighed and closed his eyes.

Molly smiled fondly and shook her head, brushing his sweaty curls away from his face. 'You're never a problem. I'll go call John for a prescription and let Mike know I'm taking the next few days off.'

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Molly cut him off with a kiss to his forehead. 'No arguing, Mister Detective. Now, how does a hot, relaxing shower sound?'

'Bloody marvelous,' came the tired reply.

* * *

 **Worries seem to fade away… they become as distant memories... When we're together**

'You're supposed to step back.'

'I did!'

'With your right foot, not your left!'

'Oh.' Molly smiled sheepishly up at him, her shin still smarting from where he'd knocked into it. Sighing heavily, with a hint of a smile on his face, Sherlock held out his hands.

'Let's try it again.'

* * *

Her shoes abandoned long ago, Molly held the skirt of her dress off the ground with one hand, the glittering diamond on her finger now accompanied by a silver wedding band; her other hand was held tightly in Sherlock's, the cool metal of his ring sending a thrill up her arm straight to her heart.

Husband.

Unable to hold back her smile at the word, Molly absolutely floated as he led them around the dance floor in a smooth waltz, their audience forgotten.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and smirked. 'Aren't you glad we practiced?'

Rolling her eyes fondly, Molly pinched his fingers. 'Oh… shut up.'


	13. What Do We Know of Love?

**AN: Ah, yes. Another Soulmate AU... in which Molly and Sherlock find their matches through a government agency and are legally required to marry. Cue angst... and fluffiness, of course. This is pretty much just me decompressing from my Big Bang fic and trying to find my muse again.**

Mycroft stared up at the walls of St Bart's and sighed. Straightening his shoulders, he slowly made his way inside and past the bustle of weekend workers to the depths of the building. Here, in the fluorescent-lit halls, the only sound was the click of his shoes against the tiles and the occasional tap of his brolly.

The door to the lab was locked and the room was completely dark, but he knew… he knew she was in there.

Running. Hiding.

Glancing up at the CCTV camera in the corner, he raised his eyebrow. Almost immediately, his phone buzzed with an incoming message from his PA.

 **55249**

He nodded to the camera in thanks and inputted the code on the keypad. The automatic lock slid back and he slipped inside. He shut the door behind him and reached for the lightswitch.

The lights flickered on to reveal Molly Hooper sitting on a stool at the far end of the work bench. She didn't look up at his entrance, her focus completely on a piece of paper in her hands. Her hair had fallen out of the elegant updo and her white gown was rumpled and slightly dirty from her run across London. But it was her expression of utter defeat on her face that brought him up short.

Taking a moment to compose his words, he slowly made his way over to her.

'I was wrong, you know.'

Mycroft stopped a few steps away from her.

She smiled sadly and traced the edges of the paper. 'I was selfish. I thought I could change his mind… convince him that love wasn't a weakness.' A tear fell onto the paper. 'But I was wrong. Because if this is strength, I want no part of it.'

He tilted his head. 'You don't mean that.'

Molly took a shaking breath and swallowed thickly, her eyes shining with fresh tears. 'No, I don't,' she whispered. 'But I wish I did.'

'You are what he needs, Miss Hooper. Whether he believes it or not.'

Sniffling, Molly forced a laugh. 'He may need me. But he does not want me. And he will never love me.'

'I regret to inform you that you are once more very much in the wrong.'

She glanced over at him.

Settling on the stool next to her, his legs brushing against the folds of her gown, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and sent off a quick text. Three minutes was all he had now. Hopefully it would be all he needed. 'You see, my brother is an idiot. A genius, yes, but an idiot nonetheless. Comparatively, of course, to myself. He does not believe in anything intangible, anything that cannot be quantified.'

Molly's left hand twitched involuntarily, drawing Mycroft's gaze.

'May I?' He gestured toward her arm and, after a moment's hesitation, Molly let him take her hand. Turning her palm face up, he brushed his thumb across the pale white initials along her wrist.

 **WSSH**

'He has spent thirty years begrudging whatever deity, universe, god, or what-have-you, that he was marked, determined to defy the inevitable. And when he met you… well, you are unquantifiable. How could it be that a stranger had been predetermined to be his perfect match? How could some unproven force break his soul in two and place the other half in someone inferior to his brilliance?'

If possible, Molly's shoulders dropped even further. Her voice wobbled as she said, 'So I had no chance. He was set against me from the beginning. And the only reason he accepted me was because of this.' More tears fell on the paper in her hand.

Mycroft sighed heavily and took it from her. The letterhead at the top bore the mark of the Soulmate Registry and from his brief skim of the contents, he deduced that it was the confirmation letter of her match to Sherlock and the resulting legal requirement to marry.

'That may have been true at first,' Mycroft stood and tucked the letter into his breast pocket, making note to push the new legislation negating the Soulmate Marriage Law through as soon as possible. 'But you are his Soulmate. And whoever designed this whole thing… well, they must have known you would change his mind.'

Laughing humorlessly, Molly shook her head. 'No. No, I didn't. I failed. And I don't know how much trouble I'm in now, but I… I can't marry him. I tried… I really did. But…' She closed her eyes. 'I fell in love with him... and I couldn't hear him promise himself to me, to love me… not when I know it's not real.'

'Wrong.'

Molly's eyes went wide when it wasn't Mycroft's voice that spoke, but a familiar deep baritone from behind him. Mycroft stepped aside and turned to the doorway. Haggard and disheveled, his tuxedo torn and his bowtie missing, Sherlock was breathing heavily and staring at his runaway bride with a thunderous expression. But Mycroft could see the relief in his eyes.

Stalking across the lab, Sherlock zeroed in on Molly with singular focus. She swallowed thickly and jumped to her feet, nearly stumbling over the train of her dress in her attempt to back away from the approaching storm.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft said warningly.

Halting a few feet from her, Sherlock struggled to rein in his temper. 'You ran. You left me at the altar and ran. No phone call. No note. No bride. Just an empty church and my Soulmate somewhere in London, hiding from me.'

'I didn't want to force you...' she whispered.

'Force me?' His face darkened and he glowered at her. 'I would not have been waiting for you at that altar if I did not want to be.'

Her breaths coming rapidly, Molly stared up at him in hesitant hope. Sherlock took another step closer.

Molly stepped back and a flash of sadness crossed Sherlock's face.

'Do I make you feel so unwanted?'

Molly glanced away, unable to stop him from deducing her unspoken answer.

Suddenly, he reached out and grasped her hand. She shuddered at his touch, the warmth of his hand warming her aching heart. She tried to tug her hand back, but he held fast. His own mark burned at the very touch of her, the pale-white **MEH** throbbing in sync with his racing heart.

He murmured, 'You are wanted, Molly Hooper. _I_ want you. I'm sorry it took me so long to realize that... I'm sorry that it took you leaving me at the altar for me to see that a future without you is a future I want no part of.'

Molly stopped struggling, caught in his earnest, vulnerable stare.

'I want to have your kindness and compassion, to see your brilliance and courage. I want to be your husband, your Soulmate... the good man you inspire me to be. Everything I didn't know I could ask for, I found in you.'

Her mark burned hot as his finger lightly caressed the pale flesh.

'You were right about one thing, though. I am a selfish man.' He closed the distance between them, holding her hand captive against his chest. He was close enough now to see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, to see the thrum of her heartbeat in her throat, to hear the slight hitch in her breath when his body brushed against hers. 'So what makes you think I'll ever let you go?'

Molly licked her lips, her mouth suddenly quite dry. Her pulse raced against his fingertips as she breathless asked the one question she needed answered above all else, 'Do you love me?'

Their future together balancing on the edge of a knife, Sherlock knew there was only one way to truly convince her of his feelings. Cupping the back of her neck, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. Immediately, the world around them faded as their marks burned bright, the sign of two souls not only meeting, but accepting the other. Molly gasped against his mouth, her eyes going wide before slowly closing as she melted against him. Sherlock caught her around the waist and held her tightly, relief and joy flooding his body as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and deepened the kiss.

Having slipped out some time before, forgotten by the couple, Mycroft stepped away from the lab door and pulled out his mobile.

 **Wedding Scenario Beta is now a go. Regroup the wedding party.**


	14. Of Bees and Clothing Conundrums

_Tumblr prompt from the fabulous SherlollyandSpoilers: Congrats on the followers, love! I guess my prompt is: Molly buys Sherlock a shirt covered in bees as a joke but he wears it around his flat all the time._

* * *

At first, she put it down to a passing interest when a body rolled into her morgue covered in bee stings. Sherlock had lit up like a Christmas tree and proceeded to weedle his way into convincing Molly to give him several skin grafts to study the stings.

A few months later, Halloween, a young woman in a slutty honeybee costume wound up on the cold slab and not ten minutes later, Sherlock stood over Molly's shoulder as she examined the unfortunate victim. He proceeded to lecture her on the inaccuracy of the costume as opposed to the true anatomy of a honeybee. Molly tuned him out after a few minutes when it became clear he wouldn't be contributing to the actual examination.

Eventually she did finally realize that, of all things, Sherlock Holmes was utterly fascinated by bees. And it made her fall in love with him all the more. The very mention of anything bee-related and he would drop whatever he was doing.

After they began dating and moved in together, Molly began slowly sneaking bee-inspired knick knacks into their flat. It started subtly; a black-and-yellow striped throw pillow on the sofa, a bar of beeswax soap in the bath,…

But when none of that elicited a response from her detective, she got bold.

Her taste in clothing had always been rather eclectic and bright, so no one really noticed when she started wearing mostly sunny yellow outfits with black accessories. Or when she splurged on two stunning gold hair pins shaped like bees. No one, except Sherlock. And if he found her more fascinating than usual, well that was between them in the privacy of their flat.

Sherlock, however, had maintained his trademark posh style for decades. Not a tousled hair out of place or a wrinkle in his tailored suit, unless he had purposefully mussed himself up for a case.

All of which Molly took as a direct challenge.

Her initial attempts were largely unsuccessful. No matter how she tried to sweet-talk him, seduce him, or trick him, none of her taste made a dent in his wardrobe. Even the black t-shirt she'd had made with 'World's ONLY Consulting Detective' emblazoned across it in silver had been tossed in the bin.

He saw right through her ploys.

But then she found the perfect shirt.

She hadn't thought it would be successful, but when she'd seen the t-shirt in the out-of-the-way shop with a plethora of cheap cotton shirts boasting any and every thing, she couldn't help herself to one last try.

And now, as she saw on the sofa flipping through a medical journal, she snuck a peek up at her boyfriend who stood over her, mapping out his latest case on the wall behind her. His designer dressing gown gaped open, revealing the baggy white shirt with a sketch of the proportions and anatomy of an Apis Mellifera, the Eastern European Honeybee, in the middle, reminiscent of DaVinci's _Vitruvian Man._

She loved him for all his eccentricities and his posh style. But seeing him in a five quid t-shirt with a bee on it melted her heart and made her fall in love with him all over again.

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible and leaned over her to tack another string between clues. Glancing down at her, he quirked his eyebrow knowingly when he caught her gaze on his shirt. Unashamed at being caught, Molly tilted her head up expectantly and smiled when he rolled his eyes fondly and leaned down to kiss her.

Sighing happily, Molly looked back down at her journal while Sherlock returned his attention to the wall, his focus once more all-consumed by the case.

Maybe she should look into buying him those yellow boxers with cartoon bees on them. Her grin widened at the thought and she absentmindedly turned the page. Yes, those would most _definitely_ suit him.


	15. A Bee in his Boxers

**Prompt from mychakk: Can you write a follow-up with John finding out about the boxers? The boys are stuck somewhere on the case sharing unexpectedly a room and the... Bee is out of the closet? ;) pretty pretty please with cherry on top? :)**

 **Oh, dear... look what I did. :)**

* * *

Not for the first time, John considered retiring from being Sherlock's Blogger/Partner-in-Crime-Solving/Keeper.

Barging into the hotel room Sherlock had rented for them, John immediately made a beeline for the bathroom, grabbing his duffel bag on the way. Locking the door, (he'd learned the hard way that Sherlock had no concept of privacy even if a door was closed) he began taking off the wet, dirty, river-stenched clothes that stuck to his skin.

'Last time I let him talk me into playing hero…' he grumbled. The cold air bit at his wet skin and he quickly hopped under the hot spray. Outside, he could hear Sherlock rummaging about, then speaking, probably using the room phone to tell Mycroft the case was done and check in with Molly, no doubt embellishing his heroics.

John huffed. As long as the detective admitted that _John_ was the one to jump into the frigid, murky river to save the victim while Sherlock tackled the kidnapper.

Though, to be fair, all four did end up treading water in the end.

Turning off the water, John grabbed a towel and quickly dried off. Sherlock may be a berk, but he didn't deserve to suffer in a dirty, wet suit.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, he left the bathroom.

And immediately came to a dead stop.

His back to the bathroom door, Sherlock had stripped out of his wet clothes and was down to just his pants.

His bright yellow, tight briefs.

'Whoa!' John exclaimed, raising his hand to cover his eyes, but not quickly enough. Sherlock spun around in surprise, giving John the perfect view of the front of the pants before he clapped his hand across his eyes: a cute cartoon bee strategically placed over Sherlock's… nether regions.

'Ah, good. You're done.'

John stumbled toward the nearest bed, waving his hand in front of him like a blind man. 'What on earth, Sherlock?!'

'You were taking too long in the bathroom and my body temperature was dropping. I needed to get out of those wet clothes.' Sherlock's voice sounded closer as he walked toward the bathroom.

John dropped onto the bed, still covering his eyes. 'I get _that_! But what's with the 'bee' briefs?!'

'Ah.' John peeked through his fingers. The detective stood in the door of the bathroom, his bag of clothes held in front of his… bee. John lowered his hand and smirked as Sherlock's ears turned pink. 'I...erm…'

'You didn't have those when we lived together. I'd remember,' John accused. 'You snuck your dirty clothes into my laundry bin often enough.'

A grin, not unlike the cat who got the cream, crept across John's face. 'So you must have started wearing them within the past few years.'

Sherlock averted his gaze.

'And the biggest change in that time is... Molly Hooper.'

'Fine, yes. Molly bought me these,' Sherlock snapped. He shivered in the cold air and John felt a twinge of guilt, but couldn't bring himself to particularly care. Oh, this was rich! Mary was going to be over the moon when he told her about this!

'I wear them… occasionally,' Sherlock admitted begrudgingly.

John quirked an eyebrow. 'How often is 'occasionally'?'

Sherlock shuffled back and forth a bit and adjusted his bag. 'Overnight cases. Happy? May I take my shower now?'

Without waiting for an answer, he spun about, giving John another front seat view of his yellow-clad arse before the bathroom door slammed shut behind him.

 _Molly Hooper is extraordinary._

Not only had she won the Detective's nearly non-existent heart, but she had him wearing cartoon boxers. And it made even a romantic heart like John's melt at the thought that the usually cold man wore such cliche pants when he was away from the woman he loved, just to feel closer to her.

But that didn't mean that he wasn't going to milk this moment for all it was worth.

Lunging for the room phone, he couldn't help laughing as he dialed Mary's number.

' _Hello?'_

'Mary, it's John. You're not gonna believe this.'


	16. A Matter of Pride

**AN: A little Pride Prejudice/Lizzie Bennet Diaries au I spun as an extra Secret Santa gift for BarefootLizz on Tumblr**

* * *

Molly barely heard the click on the other side of the phone as Mary hung up. Her entire mind blanked and her mobile slipped from her fingers, dropping unceremoniously onto the floor with a thud. The entire conversation ran through her mind.

 _'We're engaged!' Mary's shriek of delight had Molly cringing and holding the phone away from her ear. 'He came by this morning and told me everything! How he'd liked me from the start, but thought I wasn't as interested as he was and so he broke up with me, at the suggestion of Sherlock. Oh, but get this!'_

 _Molly raised her eyebrows at Mary's bellow. 'Sherlock was the one to convince him to apologize! And propose!'_

 _Molly's heart skipped a beat, then fell somewhere near her butterfly-filled stomach. 'He what?'_

 _Not hearing Molly's flabbergasted whisper, Mary continued on excitedly. 'Obviously, you'll be my Maid of Honor! And I know it will be awkward with Sherlock being John's Best Man, knowing how much you hate him, but I wouldn't have anyone else!'_

 _'What? Mary, that's not-'_

 _'Oh, someone else is calling. Hold on… Oh! It's John! Molly, I have to go! But I'll call back soon and we'll set up a time to go dress shopping! Love ya, bye!'_

 _'Mary, wait!'_

Molly tried to take a deep breath, her thoughts running a hundred miles an hour. But then a firm, decisive rap on the door brought them to a screeching halt.

She knew that knock.

'Dr Hooper?'

She knew that voice.

'Molly Hooper, for goodness' sake, I know you're in there. Now, open the door.'

Taking a deep breath, she stood and walked to the door of her flat, hesitating only a moment before swinging the door open.

'Hello, Mr Holmes.' She greeted the man she loved with a nod and a tight smile, suddenly very aware of her state of dress: pyjama bottoms and a large t-shirt with her hair piled high in a messy bun and her large-frame glasses perched on her nose. Sherlock stared down at her with an unreadable expression, his curls hanging over his eyes and his hands clasped behind his back. 'Come in.'

He followed her inside and she shut the door behind them.

They stood silently, in the middle of her lounge, sneaking glances at the other until Molly finally broke the silence. 'Mary called.'

Sherlock blinked and his ears turned pink. 'I am aware.'

Molly clasped her hands in front of her and looked down. 'She told me what you did. How you convinced John to apologize.'

'As I was the one to blame for his initial mistake, I took it upon myself to rectify my error.'

His tone was indifferent, but he took a step closer and Molly looked up at him. His usual cold expression was in place, but there was something about his eyes that made Molly's heart jump into her throat.

'That was very good of you.'

'Molly,' he said softly. 'Surely you know… I did it for you.'

Her eyes widened. He swallowed and averted his eyes.

'If you are still of the mind that I am the last man on earth you should ever fall in love with, please tell me immediately and I will leave.'

Hearing her own words spoken so softly tinged with such a sad hopefulness, Molly's heart broke.

Sherlock cleared his throat nervously and he kept his tone casual as he said, 'My feelings for you have not changed, however, so if you feel differently now-'

'Oh, absolutely!'

Sherlock barely had any time to register her blurted words before she grabbed him by the lapels of his coat and hauled him down into a kiss. His arms windmilled and he blinked in surprise, but then immediately melted into her and wrapped his arms around her.

Breathless and dazed, they broke apart. Sherlock leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. 'Well, that went better than I'd hoped.'

Laughing softly, Molly playfully punched him in the stomach. 'You're the Great Detective, surely you knew how I felt.'

'Ah, but as I have often been told by John and by yourself, not to mention countless others, I do not always have a winning approach. This could have been very Not Good.' He chuckled ruefully.

Slipping her arms around his neck, Molly tilted her head. 'Well, it wasn't. I would go so far as to say it was Exceptionally Perfect.'

Sherlock eyes glazed over and a pondering frown creased his brow.

'Oh, don't you dare start in on my exaggerating,' Molly teased and rolled her eyes fondly. She pecked his lips once more and pulled away. 'Come on, you're taking me to dinner and we can talk about where we go from here.'

'We have to go to dinner to do that?' Sherlock asked in confusion while Molly pulled on her coat and grabbed her bag.

Reaching out, she laced her fingers with his and tugged him out the door. 'Of course. That's what couples do.'

'We're a couple? Just like that?'

Molly looked up at him and felt her heart skip a beat at the pleased smile on his face. 'Yep. Just like that.'

* * *

 **A Little Afterword**

Halfway to the restaurant, Molly realized she was still in her pyjama pants.

Sherlock, of course, wondered why she was embarrassed. The flannel pants were entirely Molly; bright, cheerful, covered in cats… But he happily changed their destination and hailed a cab to bring her to Baker Street.

Mrs Hudson, of course, was more than happy to make the morbid couple some biscuits and tea as they bickered playfully and kissed sweetly, smitten smiles on both of their faces.


	17. No Refunds, No Returns

**AN: A silly, fluffy fic about our boys being auctioned off for charity. I guess I'm just in one of those cracky Sherlolly moods lately. :) Unbetaed and riddled with grammar and continuity errors, I'm sure. My fault for being too impatient to wait to post. Anyway... Enjoy!**

* * *

'You sure you want to go through with this? Any second thoughts?'

Sherlock grimaced as John roughly adjusted his tie, a cheeky grin on the doctor's face. 'For the last time, _yes._ But I _am_ beginning to second guess using this particular, ridiculous situation for my purposes.'

'Just shut up and don't say anything for the next twenty minutes. Everything will be perfect.'

Sherlock looked at his black tuxedo with a disgruntled frown. 'Good God, who ever thought of this idea should be drawn and quartered!'

John rolled his eyes and fixed his bowtie, admiring himself in the mirror. 'I think it's kind of fun. And it's for a good cause.' He looked at Sherlock and gave him a cheeky wink.

Sherlock begrudgingly agreed as he ruffled his slicked back hair, bringing the curls forward in frizzy disarray that only served to make him look slightly debauched.

'Stop doing that!' John grabbed the comb from the table and tried to fix Sherlock's hair, but the detective bobbed and weaved out of the way. John chased him around the room, much to the amusement of the other tuxedo-clad gentlemen.

Suddenly, the door opened and a sleazy-looking man strode in. 'Alright, boys. It's showtime!'

* * *

Seven men had already gone and it was down to John and Sherlock. The detective lolled in his seat, bored. John straightened his waistcoat one last time, just as the emcee began his introduction.

'Any of you beautiful ladies feeling a bit dizzy? Well, hold on to something, we've got ourselves a doctor to take care of you!'

John couldn't help the flush that rose up the back of his neck and filled his face. The emcee milked the gasps and oohs, hamming it up right before the introduction.

'The famous Doctor John Watson!'

John stepped out onto the makeshift stage to thunderous applause and immediately found himself the prey of many a hungry eye. Searching the room, he caught Mary's gaze. She was giggling behind her champagne glass at his discomfort and he narrowed his eyes accusingly at her.

Beside her, Molly Hooper was graciously holding back her laughter.

The emcee's ridiculous pitch was almost instantly interrupted when an older woman in the front raised her paddle and bellowed, '200 pounds!'

'Wow, thank you ma'am!' The emcee recovered quickly. 'But surely a date with the famous blogger warrants more than 200 pounds for the Children's wing. Do I hear 300?'

'Oh yes!' A curvaceous woman from the back called out, raising her paddle and waggling her fingers. She batted her eyes at John and gave him a salacious wink.

John swallowed nervously and looked to Mary for help, who had abandoned all attempts to hide her mirth and was leaning on Molly, both of them laughing uproariously.

The bidding rapidly rose and, to John's great relief, an older woman in the front row won him for 800 pounds. She smiled sweetly at him and he hopped down from the stage.

'You looked mighty frightened there, my dear,' she said as she shook his hand.

John chuckled. 'Some of those women looked ready to devour me whole. I thank you for saving me, Mrs Holmes.'

Winking cheekily at him, she patted his cheek. 'Anytime, love.'

* * *

Molly tried her hardest to stop laughing. Poor John had looked like a lamb being led to the slaughter up there on that stage. She felt a bit guilty about taking joy in his discomfort, but when a nice, older lady won him, she felt better.

Mary wiped her eyes and giggled a bit more. 'Oh, that was priceless. Can you imagine if anyone else had won him? Some of them looked ready to climb him like a tree!'

They watched as the elder woman winked at John and patted his cheek.

'I don't know, Mary,' Molly teased. 'You might still have some competition there.'

'I highly doubt Sherlock's mother is keen on stealing my husband away. She knows what I can do.'

Molly's jaw dropped. 'That's Sherlock's mum?'

'Mmm,' Mary nodded and sipped her champagne. Her eyes suddenly widened and she exclaimed excitedly, 'Oh, it's Sherlock's turn!'

Indeed, the emcee was beginning the final introduction.

'-famous Consulting Detective! He's tall, dark, and will solve the mystery of your heart!'

Molly snorted as Mary guffawed.

'Sherloooock Hoooolmes!'

If the applause for John was thunderous, the applause for his friend was downright deafening. Cat calls and cheers preceded the detective's reluctant appearance. He trudged onto the stage, his curls mussed purposefully, only making him more attractive.

Molly's heart skipped a beat. She may have moved on, but her heart had its traitorous moments.

'He needs no introduction, so let's start the bidding at... 1000 pounds!'

Immediately, a half dozen paddles hit the air, even as John shouted out indignantly, '1000?! Bloody hell!'

Molly's humor slowly diminished as the bidding rose. The women fighting for a dinner with the detective were voluptuous, gorgeous, graceful. Compared to them, Molly felt every inch the frumpy, mousy pathologist, despite her form-fitting gown that Mary had assured her only emphasized her assets.

Not to mention, they were now throwing enough money toward him that it would take Molly six months to earn it.

Sherlock, for his part, looked extremely uncomfortable to be the catch of the day. His face was blank as he stared at the back wall, but Molly could see the tenseness in his shoulders and the clenching of his jaw.

The competition was getting heated now between two women. A blonde with what was a clearly false... erm, front. Her eyes were fixed on Sherlock and promised him a night of debauchery and sin.

The other was a black-haired vixen, whose dress covered less than it showed. And by the way her tongue ran over her lips, she intended to turn dinner with Sherlock into a 'dinner' _of_ Sherlock.

 _It's for the children_. Molly reminded herself.

But no matter how many times she tried to calm herself, the idea of either of these women winning Sherlock turned her stomach. Her hands shook and her lungs constricted. A feeling, long dormant, deep inside awoke and rose with a vengeance.

Jealousy.

'I, erm, have to use the loo.' Before Mary could even turn to look at her, Molly dropped her glass to the table, the champagne sloshing dangerously, and fled the room.

Behind her, Mary called out frantically, 'Molly wait!'

Molly ignored her. She worked so hard, for so long, to bury her love for Sherlock and had finally accepted that Sherlock would only be her friend. Their friendship had flourished and she was more than happy that she was considered his close friend (even though it meant he regularly barged into her flat at unholy hours to drag her out on a case).

Now those blasted feelings of jealousy were ruining everything!

Angry with herself, Molly marched down the hall and straight-armed her way outside.

Screw the loo, she was heading home.

* * *

Gown abandoned and an indulgent bath drawn, Molly sat on the edge of the tub in her robe and dipped her fingers in the bubbly waters. The scent of lemons and lavender filled the steamy room and she could already feel herself getting lost in the relaxation.

Until, that is, there was a knock on her bathroom door.

 _Knock knock._

'Molly Hooper, I need to speak with you at once.'

Sighing, Molly looked down at the welcoming bath and pursed her lips.

 _Knock knock._

'Molly, now would be a most convenient time.'

'Well, it's not convenient for me, Sherlock!' She called out. The last thing she wanted to do was get dressed again and head out on a case... especially now, when she was trying to repress the rising up of old feelings for the man just on the other side of the door.

She paused, waiting to hear the sound of him huffing and another knock.

Her eyes widened in horror when she heard the tell-tale sounds of the lock being picked.

'Sherlock!' She exclaimed as the door swung open and a disgruntled Consulting Detective strode inside. She scrambled to her feet and self-consciously held the lapels of her fluffy robe closed as he crowded her in the small space. 'What do you think you're doing?!'

He towered over her, glowering. 'You left.'

She tucked her hair behind her ear. 'I... I had a headache.'

'Lie.'

Crossing her arms, Molly frowned up at him and coldly said, 'Well, I did.' Her defense was weak, even Anderson would have noticed the way she averted her gaze and blushed. It just wasn't fair. She couldn't think straight; Sherlock's presence was overwhelming and her heart was pounding, the blood rushing from her brain into her cheeks.

Sherlock huffed and shoved his hands into his pockets. 'Whatever the reason, you left the charity ball early.'

'I stayed for nearly three hours. It didn't matter if I missed the last five minutes of the auction.' She shrugged.

'It did matter.' He cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes accusingly. 'You were supposed to stay.'

'Well, I'm sorry I didn't stay long enough to see you hooked by one of those buxom predators,' Molly snapped.

His face cleared suddenly and the corner of his mouth twitched in the semblance of a smile. 'Oh. I see.'

'You see _what_?'

Reaching into the inner pocket of his suit, he withdrew a folded piece of paper and held it out to her. 'Jealousy doesn't become you, Dr Hooper.'

Molly took the paper and resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. Unfolding it, she scanned its typed contents and all the blood drained from her face.

Evidently, all their friends had pooled together and, combined with a generous donation from Mycroft Holmes, they had outbid all the others and won Sherlock for a whopping 9000 pounds. And gifted him to Molly.

At the bottom, in Mary's unmistakable scribble, was a winky face and a cheeky ** _Sorry, Molly. No refunds. No returns._**

Molly licked her suddenly dry lips. 'Oh,' she whispered faintly.

'You were supposed to be there when Mary made the final bid and they were going to surprise with... well, _me_.'

'So,' she said hesitantly, sliding her finger along the edge of the paper, unable to meet his gaze. 'This was all a scheme and you knew the entire time what they planned on doing?' _And you were okay with it?_ The unspoken question lingered between them.

'Yep.'

'And you went along with it because...?' She looked up at him now and, in the dim bathroom lighting, saw all the answers she needed in his eyes.

'Because I am in love with you.'

He said it so simply that, had it been anyone else, Molly would have doubted it completely. But this was Sherlock, who saw the world in black and white, and she knew when he put up a false front. She may have given in to it many times over the years, but she always knew when he was being manipulative and when he was being honest.

It was only a matter of _believing_ it.

'So, congratulations, Dr Hooper,' he said smoothly, stepping into her space and wrapping his arm around her waist. She braced her hands against his chest, her fingers flexing against the taught muscles, the paper crinkling in her hand. 'What would you like to do with your winnings?'

Molly blinked rapidly, her wit momentarily impeded by the heady feeling of his body slotted against hers. She glanced down at the paper. 'I-I, erm, I think this o-only entitles me to a two-hour dinner, Mr Holmes.'

'We can eat a lot in two hours,' he said with a smirk.

Before Molly could say anything else, his lips were suddenly on hers and she lost herself in the dizzying sensation of being thoroughly kissed by Sherlock Holmes. His hand ran up her back and he threaded his fingers in her loose hair, firmly tugging until she tilted her head back and opened her mouth to his further ministrations.

The paper fell from her hand and she wrapped her arms around his neck, rising up on her tiptoes. Being kissed by Sherlock, a Sherlock who admitted he was in love with her, was everything she'd dreamed it would be. And more.

Finally breaking apart, breathless and flushed, Molly slowly dropped her heels and bit her lip, staring up at Sherlock shyly. Her heart skittered at the dazed look on his face.

'I love you, too.' She suddenly blurted. His eyes widened and she blushed, quickly stammering, 'I just thought I should say it, since you said it, and it seemed like a good time to say it back, even though you've most likely known I have for the past six years...'

She trailed off helplessly. Would she always be doomed to have a mouth that just ran away from her?

He chuckled softly and pressed a firm kiss to her lips. 'Six years, huh? It seems I have a lot of time to make up for.'

Molly bit back a grin and flicked her eyes toward the paper lying on the floor. 'Well, fortunately for you, you'll have quite a long time to work on it. After all,' she said coyly and raised herself up onto her tiptoes. His eyes darkened and she could feel his heart beat faster as her breath caressed his lips. 'You're a gift I apparently can't return, so I'm afraid I'm rather stuck with you.'

His pout was cut off by Molly's mouth and by the time she pulled away, he'd quite forgotten what he'd been sulking about and eagerly followed her into the bedroom.


	18. Just Between Us

**AN:A bit of Uni!lock Sherlolly set in the early 1900s. Just because I'm in the mood for some good, old-fashioned sweetness. Enjoy, my loves!**

* * *

He first saw her when he was crossing the King's College Bridge on his way to class. He hadn't meant to look down, but the sound of laughter drifted up and he scowled in the direction of the noise. A tall, gangly boy was pushing a punt through the water below. Three girls sat inside, two of whom, elaborate hats on their heads, had their backs to him and he instantly knew the loud, obnoxious laughter was coming from them.

The third had her face buried in a book.

Unknowingly, he stopped and leaned against the stone railing. The girl's brown hair was pulled back in a soft braid, uncovered, and wisps dangled over her face, which she kept blowing out of the way. Her eyes danced across the page as she read, clearly engrossed in the tale.

Suddenly, as if sensing his gaze, she raised her head and looked straight up at him. A becoming blush stained her cheeks and she lifted her hand in a small wave, just as the punt disappeared under the bridge.

Shaking himself from his momentary lapse, Sherlock resumed his trek to class. But the memory of her wide, brown eyes stayed with him for the rest of the day.

* * *

Nearly a year passed by the time he saw her again. He was on his way to the laboratory, an experiment ruminating in his mind, and wasn't paying much attention to what was in front of him until he was knocked off his feet by a small, decidedly female body running into him.

They both tumbled to the ground and he landed hard on his bum, the girl atop him.

He grimaced in pain and opened his eyes, a harsh word on the tip of his tongue, only to find himself staring into the brown eyes that had never managed to be forgotten.

'I-I-I'm so sorry!' She stammered, quickly scrambling off of him and helping him to his feet. He stared at her in bemusement as she blurted, 'Are you okay? I should have watched where I was going, but you see, I'm late and they're going to be so angry, and I truly didn't mean to run into you-'

'Molly! Come on!' A blonde-haired girl called behind her.

 _Molly_ bit her lip and looked back at her friend over her shoulder. 'I need to go. I really am sorry!'

Before Sherlock could think of anything to say to get her to stay, she took off.

He watched, stunned, as she and her friend disappeared around the science building.

His mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile. 'Molly,' he breathed.

* * *

He wasn't going to let her get away again.

It was the first beautiful day of spring and students and professors alike were taking to the lawns. Sherlock was headed for the Chancellor's office, the evidence of a Dean's embezzlement in his hand, when he stopped dead in his tracks, his gaze fixed across the crowded lawn.

John ran right into his back.

'Sherlock! What the he-'

'Take it.' Sherlock shoved the papers into his friend's hands. John sputtered in confusion, but Sherlock ignored him and immediately strode off the path, weaving his way through the people soaking in the rare sunshine, without breaking his gaze away from the brown-haired girl with a book in her lap.

When his shadow fell over her, she glanced up and a fierce blush stole across her face when she saw him.

'May I?' He gestured to the spot next to her.

She managed a small, shy smile and nodded, pulling her skirts around her bent legs and tucking her hair behind her ear.

Sherlock sat down, keeping proper distance between them, and glanced at the book she held tightly in her lap.

' _Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease_ ,' he read the title. 'You're studying medicine.' It wasn't a question, but her grip tightened until her knuckles turned white and he looked up to see her eyes turn stormy and her jaw clench. Clearly, she was bracing herself for his mockery.

'Pathology, actually,' she corrected him, her eyes daring him to say anything derogatory.

A smile bloomed on his face and she blinked in surprise, her guard falling.

He held out his hand and she looked at it in confusion. 'Sherlock Holmes.'

'Molly Hooper,' she replied hesitantly, shaking his hand briefly, but Sherlock held fast when she started to pull away.

'A pleasure to officially meet you, Molly,' he said, enjoying the way her cheeks darkened at the sound of her name. 'We're going to get along famously.'

* * *

Not many people knew how Sherlock Holmes met his wife. Many assumed they had met when he was working with the Met and she was a mortuary assistant and they had fallen in love over a corpse.

Their close friends, however, knew that they'd met at University, though they thought they'd had a class together and fallen in love over laboratory experiments.

But it was only the two of them who knew that they had fallen in love that first day, inbetween one heartbeat and the next, staring at the other from a bridge and a boat.

And it was a secret they were content to keep to themselves.


	19. I Am Yours

**For Sherlockian87. :)**

* * *

The evening sun spread its gold and red hues across the ocean, sending sparkles dancing with every gentle wave. The warm breeze whispered over the sand and the only sound was the soft lapping of waves upon the shore and the rustling of leaves.

On the porch of the charming cottage set back in the solitude of trees with nary a soul around for miles, Molly was curled up against Sherlock's bare chest in a rope hammock, his arms wrapped around her. She sighed happily when he kissed her temple and tightened his embrace. With one leg stretched out on her side, he kept them gently rocking with the other by pushing off the floor.

She stared out at the beautiful sunset, but couldn't bring herself to truly appreciate it. Not when she was in the arms of her love.

Slowly swinging her legs over the side, she stood and walked toward the door, turning back just once with her hand on the doorframe. Sherlock stared after her in confusion.

'Coming?'

A smile broke across his face and he gracefully extricated himself from the hammock. Molly held out her hand to him and giggled when he took the opportunity and spun her back to him. He swept her up into his arms and she lost herself in his passionate kiss.

She pulled away when she felt the softness of the mattress beneath her. Sherlock knelt over her and threaded his fingers through hers, pressing her hands into the mattress on either side of her head. She smiled at the sound of their rings, the ones they placed on each other's finger just the day before, clinking together. Sherlock's answering smile was enough to fill her heart to bursting.

He leaned down, his breath caressing her lips as he whispered, 'I am yours.'

'As I am yours.'


	20. A Timely Mistake

**AN: I've been fiddling around with writing a Sherlolly Who!lock for a while now... and I finally did it! Enjoy, my loves! :)**

Molly stepped out into the cold, London air and breathed in deep. Oh, it was good to be back.

Behind her, the Doctor leaned out of the TARDIS and licked his finger, holding it up in the air and furrowing his brow in thought.

'London, England, sometime in the year... 2016! Oh, a good year indeed, 2016. Summer Olympics in Rio, Molly. Positively spectacular!'

Molly giggled as the Doctor smirked in that knowing, cheeky way of his and twirled on the spot, his black coat swirling about him in a flash of red satin.

'You do remember 2016 is the year you stole me from,' she teased and grabbed his hand. 'Now, come on, let's see if anything's changed!'

The Doctor huffed. 'What could possibly have changed? You only left mere days, or possibly months, ago!'

Molly rolled her eyes. ' _I've_ changed! I've spent the last seven months of my own linear time traveling across the stars! So, to me, _everything_ has changed, because I'm looking at it all through different eyes.'

'Ah. An excellent point,' he agreed solemnly.

Locking elbows with him, she beamed up at him. 'Let's go!'

To his credit, the Doctor held back _most_ of his biting remarks about the London streets and sheer amount of people as they wandered through the crowds.

'How about some chips?' Molly offered and grinned triumphantly at the spark of interest in his eyes. He really was a sucker for a good batch of chips. 'Come on,' she said and tugged him down a side street. 'I know a place.'

* * *

Her favourite fish and chips place was just down the street from St Bart's and she eagerly pulled him along behind her. His grumblings only made her smile bigger. He was really a big softie on the inside and, like Sherlock, his gruffness was only a defense to protect himself.

Which was another reason why she loved him.

Finally arriving, she pushed open the door and they were hit by a blast of heat and the smell of delicious, mouthwatering chips.

The Doctor groaned appreciatively and they approached the clerk, who was hunched over the cash register.

'Two baskets of chips, please, Ramone.' She smiled as her friend lifted his head.

The elderly man looked up and his jaw dropped. 'Molly?!'

'Hi!' Molly's smile faded when he continued to gape at her. Her brow furrowed in confusion. 'Is everything okay?'

'Is every-...' Ramone sputtered. 'You show up here out of the blue and ask if everything's okay, like you haven't been missing for an entire year?!'

Molly's eyes popped out and beside her the Doctor sucked in a breath.

'Oops.'

Heart thundering, she slowly turned to look at him. 'A _year?!_ You brought me back _a year_ late?!'

He cleared his throat. 'To be fair, it's hard to tell the difference between 2016 and 2017, they taste very similar.'

Nostrils flaring, Molly grabbed him by the lapel and dragged him from the shop, ignoring Ramone's confused exclamations behind her.

'Molly, let go! I'm not the type to be dragged about!' He lowered his voice to a grumble. 'Why is this becoming more common with companions, I really need to start vetting you all for violent tendencies.'

'Not until we're back at the TARDIS and you take me back to my own time,' she shouted over her shoulder, uncaring of those shooting them strange looks. The petite spitfire dragging the older man dressed like a magician behind her like she was taking him to the gallows.

'I can't!'

She stopped and spun around, shoving her finger into his chest. 'What do you mean, _you can't_?'

'I, erm...' He swallowed and averted his gaze. 'It's a fixed point now. There's no undoing it without damaging time itself.'

A year? A whole year she'd been missing from London. More time than she'd even _actually_ been gone!

'Oh, oh!' She glared at him and stomped her foot, unable to do more to convey just how... just how _furious_ she was with him. Whipping around, she stalked away.

Blindly walking, she didn't realize she was following the familiar path from Bart's to Baker Street.

The Doctor trailed behind her, like a puppy dog with his tail between his legs. She would occasionally glare at him over her shoulder, but he refused to retreat.

'Molly, please, let's go back to the TARDIS.'

She ignored him and ran across the intersection just as it turned. She looked back to see him waiting for the thick traffic to clear and hurried her pace. Just as she turned forward, she collided with a tall, solid body. She would have fallen but for the arm wrapped around her waist.

Her eyes widened as she took in the familiar-looking aubergine button-down shirt stretched over a broad chest. She slowly looked up into the startled eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

'Sherlock!' She exclaimed. To see him now, after seven months of traveling the universe, her heart still raced and she knew she was still as in love with him as ever.

He remained frozen in surprise and she realized he was probably deducing a plethora of alien-and-time discrepancies about her that were confounding his logical mind.

'I-I know it's been a while a-and I've g-got a lot to explain, but- mmpfff!'

Whatever else she was going to say was cut off as he leaned down and crushed his mouth to hers. Her eyes widened and her heart skipped a beat.

What was he doing?! What was _she_ doing?! Sherlock Holmes was kissing her! Why?! And why wasn't she kissing him back?! ...what was she supposed to do with her hands?

'Molly,' Sherlock broke away with a panting breath, his eyes dark and stormy. 'I would appreciate it greatly if you would kiss me back.'

She licked her lips and stared up at hm in complete confusion, her cheeks burning bright red. 'Erm... okay?'

This time when he pressed his lips to hers, she was a more than willing participant. His hands pulled her tight against him, as if he were afraid she would disappear if he let go. She clutched his shoulders then slipped her hands along the nape of his neck and into his hair, twirling the soft curls. He groaned appreciatively and deepened the kiss, bending her back. Everything she'd ever wanted to hear from him was said in the tenderness, almost desperateness, of his kiss.

Unfortunately, the need to breathe broke them out of their passionate embrace. Sherlock braced his forehead against hers and she tried to calm her racing heart. Sliding her hands down his chest, she could feel the thundering of his own heart in answer to her own.

'I see you've found a Pudding Brain,' a voice interrupted them.

Molly smiled as Sherlock scowled and they turned to face the Doctor. 'Oh, sorry! Sherlock, this is the Doctor. Doctor, this...' she looked up at Sherlock and felt her heart fill to burst. '...is Sherlock Holmes.'

The Doctor and Sherlock sized each other up. Molly bit her lip nervously and looked between the two brilliant, caustic geniuses in her life, both of whom she loved deeply, though very differently.

'I suppose he'll do,' the Doctor begrudgingly admitted. 'Even if he is a Pudding Brain.'

'I don't need your approval,' Sherlock snapped and tightened his hold on Molly's waist.

Molly chuckled and rested her head on his arm. 'Actually, you do.'

Sherlock harrumphed and the Doctor smirked triumphantly.

'Isn't there something you need to get from the TA-ship?' Molly covered her blunder with a discreet cough. 'Sherlock and I need to have a little talk.'

'Talk?' Sherlock snorted.

Molly elbowed him and frowned. 'Shush.' Turning toward the Doctor, she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 'I'll be there in a little bit. Promise.'

The Doctor waved his hand dismissively, trying to hide the pleased blush on his cheeks. 'Off with you.'

Sherlock immediately pulled Molly down the street toward the black door of 221 Baker Street. She waved at the Time Lord just as Sherlock pulled her inside.

The Doctor shook his head and smiled as he turned around and strolled down the street.

He hadn't meant to bring her back a year later. Six months, at most. Just enough to make the famous detective realize his feelings for her, so when she reappeared he wouldn't hesitate to make them known.

Ah, well. It seemed everything had worked out just as he'd planned nonetheless.

And when he got a call from Molly nine months later asking him round for tea, he was pleased to find her sitting contentedly in 221b Baker Street watching her husband strut around the room, cradling their newborn daughter in his arms as he told her about the many adventures her mother had been on with a legendary Time Lord.

The Doctor plopped onto the sofa next to her and plunked his booted feet on the coffee table.

'Are you happy?'

She turned toward him, a smile brighter than all the stars he'd ever shown her gracing her face. 'Utterly and completely.'


	21. His Everything

**Sherlolly Week 2016 Day 1**

 **Canon Compliant: Queen of the Mind Palace**

He'd been avoiding this section of his Mind Palace ever since the Magnussen incident. It had been a moment of weakness between leaving the plane and getting in the car, a temptation to go through the broken barriers caused by the mixture of drugs flooding his body that he couldn't resist.

John and Mary had climbed in behind him and as soon as the door slammed shut, Sherlock was dragged back into his Mind Palace by the one person he'd been avoiding.

'You're high.'

Sherlock opened his eyes at the biting disappointed voice and found himself in the courtroom. Turning around, he looked up at where the Head Justice would reign. But instead of a judge, there stood the one person he'd been avoiding in real life, as well as in his mind. The one person whose good favor he sought above everyone else's, who ruled his conscience like she was the Queen of his Mind Palace.

Staring down at him with deep disappointment etched into the lines of her face, Molly leaned against the ledge and her voice was taught with rage as she bit out, 'How could you?'

Unable to bear the weight of her gaze, Sherlock ducked his head and shoved his hands into his pockets. His heart fell heavy with guilt knowing he'd broken her trust once more.

Suddenly, she was there in front of him, reaching out and turning his head toward her. He hesitantly raised his eyes. Her own brown orbs shimmered with tears of anger and disappointment.

'How could you?' She whispered raggedly.

'I couldn't face it,' he admitted reluctantly. She tilted her head in question. 'I've made death my life, solving it, dissecting it, flirting with it...'

Her eyes softened in understanding and she brushed the curls from his forehead, her fingers lovingly tracing the lines of his face.

'But to knowingly face my own death?' He gulped and his hands shook, tears burning his eyes. 'Alone, without John, without you... I was petrified. I thought the solution I took would make it easier; I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.'

'Oh, Sherlock.' Her voice broke and she wrapped her arms around his shaky frame, letting him bury his face in the curve of her neck. His own arms locked around her and he kept mumbling apologies as she ran her hand soothingly across his back.

The moment was brief and Sherlock felt himself being pulled out of his thoughts by an external force. Molly's presence faded away as the car pulled to a stop outside Baker Street. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he leapt from the car, taking the stairs up to his flat two at a time.

There, wearing a hole in his floor and biting her thumbnail, was Molly. Safe, whole, and worried. She looked up at his entrance and whatever she was about to say was stifled as he crossed the room and swept her into his arms.

She stiffened momentarily.

'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,' he mumbled, refusing to let go when she tried to move back. Slowly, she relaxed and slipped her arms around his neck.

When he finally loosened his hold enough for her to pull back, she brushed the unruly curls from his forehead. His breath hitched at the action. 'Sherlock, what's going on? Is... is he really back?'

'I don't know yet,' he admitted.

John and Mary entered, followed by Mycroft, all of them stopping in surprise at the sight of their friends in a semi-intimate embrace.

Sherlock ignored them all, focusing on Molly. He cupped her cheek and brushed away a stray tear.

She finally looked at his face, taking in the pale skin, red eyes, dilated pupils. Her worry faded and an angry flush filled her cheeks. She pushed on his chest, but his arms were an iron band around her waist. 'You're high.'

'Not the priority right now, I'm afraid,' Mycroft interrupted, stepping forward as John and Mary settled on the couch.

Molly glared at the elder Holmes then back at Sherlock. 'Sherlock, what's going on? Why...?' She trailed off helplessly, angry and confused. _Why are you high? Why haven't I seen you in months?_ Each unspoken question in her eyes was like a punch to his gut.

'I'll explain everything, I promise,' he whispered. 'But right now, I need to keep you safe.'

'Do you think he will come after me?' She looked up at him in fear.

'If he does, I will do everything in my power to keep you safe,' he promised.

Frozen by the sudden intensity in his gaze, Molly's hands clenched the fabric of his Belstaff. 'B-but I'm nothing, I'm not important.'

Sherlock leaned down, brushing his lips against hers with a tenderness that surprised even himself. Pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, he held her close.

'No, Molly,' he whispered. 'You are my everything.'


	22. Tell Your Heart to Beat Again

**So, I listened to Tell Your Heart to Beat Again by Danny Gokey literally all day today (it's a good rainy day song). And it made me want to write some Sherlolly.**

 **So here we are... a little story about what would have happened if Molly hadn't helped Sherlock fake his death and thought he was dead for those 2 years.**

* * *

John watched with a heavy heart as Sherlock shrugged his coat on and flipped up the collar.

'How long?'

Sherlock paused in the process of buttoning his coat. 'I don't know.'

The quiet of the morgue descended between them. Outside, an army of reporters, coppers, and bystanders filled the street. All waiting for the official news that the great Consulting Detective was dead.

'What about Molly?'

Sherlock almost imperceptibly flinched at John's question. 'What about her?'

'Sherlock, the woman loves you.' John's face twisted in a grimace, his eyes softening in compassion. 'This... this is going to kill her.'

No emotion passed over Sherlock's face, but John was more observant than the detective gave him credit for. The usual hardness, disinterest lining Sherlock's eyes softened slightly.

'She is Molly Hooper,' Sherlock said, turning to look at John with a solemn expression. 'She is the strongest person I know. And she will survive.'

* * *

 **Two Years Later**

Freshly shaved and still a bit sore from Serbia, Sherlock strode into the restaurant with a determined glare, immediately narrowing in on the couple in the far corner. Dressed in a soft yellow dress with her long, brown hair pulled back in a french braid, Molly Hooper sat with her back to him, sharing an intimate meal with a curly-haired man who was clearly uncomfortable in his suit and fidgeting nervously, unable to look away from the woman across from him.

 _About to propose._ The words danced across Sherlock's vision, taunting him.

Easily swiping an apron and order pad from behind the hostess station, Sherlock wove through the tables toward the back.

'-amazing. I know the past few years have been hard for you, and I just count myself so, so lucky that you agreed to have coffee with me,' the man was speaking lowly, his voice shaky with emotion. Sherlock immediately swung around, busying himself rearranging the table behind them.

'I know it's only been six months, but I can't imagine my life without you by my side.'

'Tom-' Molly's desperate whisper was barely audible.

The snap of a velvet box opening stopped Sherlock's heart and he froze.

'Molly Hooper, will you marry me?'

Sherlock held his breath, gripping the back of the chair to keep himself from turning around. His knuckles turned white as the silence stretched.

Finally, Molly spoke, her voice barely a hoarse whisper.

'I can't.'

Tom sighed. 'It's him, isn't it? The one you lost.'

'You can't lose something you never had,' she said sadly. 'But yes. I'm so sorry, I do love you, I just...'

'Loved him more,' Tom finished for her resignedly. A muffled sob was his answer.

Sherlock couldn't bear to hear any more, guilt crushing him, an enormous weight on his chest, pressing down on his lungs until it hurt to breathe.

As Molly and Tom composed themselves, Sherlock slipped out the back.

* * *

It was a rare cloudless night and the full moon illuminated the graveyard as Molly wove through the graves before finally coming to a stop in front of the familiar onyx headstone.

A small smile played on her lips as she touched the cold stone and wiped a stray tear away.

'Hi Sherlock. I know it's been a few months since I visited.' She stepped back. 'Not that you would have probably noticed, even if you were alive.'

'Don't make small talk, Molly,' she said in a deep, faux baritone then laughed softly. The breeze cut through the yard and she shivered, sobering quickly as she hugged her arms around her middle. 'Tom proposed tonight. And I told him no.'

Biting her lips, she tilted her head back and blinked back tears. 'I honestly thought I could move on, pick up the pieces and fall in love again. Because I don't want to be-,' her voice broke and the tears started falling. 'I don't want to be in love with you anymore. You didn't love me before and you can't love me now.'

She was crying openly now. 'The day you died, it was like my heart stopped beating. I don't think I even breathed that first week. I kept expecting you to walk through the door, sweep into the morgue, as if you'd just been away on a case.'

'Then six months had gone by and it started to sink in that you were never coming back. Every morning I had to keep telling my heart to keep beating, that I would get through this. And when Tom asked me out, I... I honestly thought I could fall in love again. He was sweet, kind, romantic... the perfect man.'

Her voice was barely a whisper as she struggled to speak. 'But he wasn't you. I don't want perfect. I only want you.'

Covering her mouth, her shoulders shook as she cried, unable to stay strong any longer.

Until a voice spoke behind her.

'Hello, Molly.'

Her heart stopped and she hiccuped a sob, sure her ears were playing tricks on her. Slowly, she turned around and her eyes widened.

Standing just out of arm's reach was a dead man. His curls were shorn and his cheekbones were a bit more defined than she remembered, but it was him. Sherlock Holmes. Alive and staring at her with an intensity she'd never seen before.

Dazed, she took a step closer. His face was open and tear tracks marked his cheeks. She reached up and cautiously traced her fingers along his cheek, gasping at the warmth she found.

She took in the new scars and lines, her heart aching at the pain behind his eyes. Brushing her thumb at a tear that fell down his cheek, her bottom lip trembled and her own tears started anew. He turned into her touch and covered her hand with his, closing his eyes. His body shuddered and another tear escaped as his resolve crumbled.

Standing on her toes, Molly slipped her arms around his neck and held him tight, crying into his coat.

And when his arms wrapped around her and he buried his head in the curve of her neck, his tears staining her scarf...

...for the first time in two years her heart finally beat again.


	23. Say Goodbye to Where You've Been

**AN: A followup to Tell Your Heart to Beat Again**

* * *

Molly woke slowly, every muscle in her body aching. Opening her eyes, she frowned in confusion, wondering why her curtains were closed, why she was on the wrong side of the bed and why she felt so exhausted.

Then the memories of the night before came rushing back. Tom's proposal, her rejection, visiting Sherlock's grave...

 _Sherlock._

Gasping, she jerked upright and looked beside her.

The bed was empty there was no sign of anyone else having slept there.

Her eyes filled with tears and she pulled her knees into her chest. It had been a dream. A vivid, heartbreaking dream. Of course it had been. Because Sherlock was dead.

Her shoulders began to shake and she buried her head in her knees, letting out a gut-wrenching cry.

Suddenly, the bed dipped and there were strong hands pulling her against a solid body, peeling her arms away from her knees. She struggled, her mind and emotions in such a quandary, but found herself trapped in a strong hold.

'I'm here, I'm right here,' the familiar, never forgotten baritone promised. Somehow he had maneuvered them so she was between his long legs, back against his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist. Molly clutched his arms and turned her head into his chest as she cried.

Sherlock's heartbeat pounded against her ear and gradually her cries slowed. Each _thump_ of his heart a reminder that he was right there.

'I'm so sorry,' he whispered, his voice hoarse and low.

Molly took a deep breath. 'What happened?' The simple question held two years' worth of weight and the silence that descended between them only made her more anxious. She was grateful that she couldn't see his face, see the cold mask he'd put up while he figured a way out of telling her anything. She wasn't important, after all.

To her surprise, Sherlock tightened his hold on her and began to explain, about Moriarty, about the final problem, the guns trained on the people most important to him...

'Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, John, obviously, though he easily overpowered his assassin.' He paused for a moment. 'And you.'

Molly sucked in a breath. 'Me?'

'I thought Moriarty would overlook you if I was careful, if I didn't let on just how much you... matter to me,' he admitted the last part quietly and almost reverently.

Heart beating furiously, Molly tilted her head up. Sherlock looked down at her, his face no longer covered in the cold mask she remembered. Rather it was lined with warmth and sorrow and a thousand emotions he'd never shown so openly before.

He lifted his hand and traced his fingers down her cheek, wiping away the tear tracks. She leaned into his touch, never taking her gaze from his.

Licking her lips, she whispered, 'Why did you do this? Why did you let us all believe you were dead?'

'To protect you.' His eyes flashed dangerously as he said, 'Moriarty's web was intricate and far-reaching. I needed time to unravel it, without his partners looking over their shoulders to see me coming and using my friends as a weakness against me. I needed to die.'

Her bottom lip trembled and tears filled her eyes. 'So you were alone all this time?'

A small smile played in the corner of his mouth. 'Always worrying about me, Molly Hooper.'

The temptation to smile back was great. Instead, she turned her head and resumed her original position, back against his chest. His hand hovered in the air for a moment before he wrapped it around her once more.

'But it's done,' he continued. 'You're safe.'

His story complete, silence fell between them. Molly was struggling to understand, to believe, that he was really alive and holding her. Her fingers dug into the flesh of his arms, anchoring him to her, as if he would vanish if she let go.

Sherlock was waiting with bated breath for her to say something. She had been the driving force behind his mission, keeping him sane in the darkest of nights, the nights when loneliness and despair would have driven him to find a hit. During those two years, the little feelings he'd harbored for her had grown, and it wasn't until he'd seen her standing by his graveside that he realized that _she_ was his heart all along, wherever she was was home.

'You heard me at the graveside, didn't you?' Molly suddenly asked, her voice timid.

Sherlock's initial surprise at the sudden change of topic faded to guilt. 'Yes.'

'So you know that I still... you know,' she trailed off, the tips of her ears burning bright red.

A weight rolled off his shoulders. 'Yes.'

'Right,' she nodded, feeling a flush of humiliation.

'Molly, look at me.' Sherlock coaxed her softly, cupping her cheek when she refused and turning her so he could see her profile. She kept her eyes lowered, but he could see the tears that were threatening to escape. 'I love you, too.'

Her eyes flew to his.

Sherlock smiled softly. He glanced down at her lips then slowly, so as to give her time to move away, he leaned down. When he brushed his lips against hers, his heart jolted in his chest.

The kiss was short, but it was enough. Molly pulled back, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks rosy. Then, like a switch had been flipped, the dazzled look was gone and her eyes were dancing with fire.

'All this doesn't mean that I'm not completely and utterly angry with you,' she whispered hotly and once more turned her head and settled back against his chest.

He brushed his nose against her temple and smirked when she shivered. 'I know.'

It was a promising start. He still had two years to make up to her, but sitting on her bed, holding her close, he knew it was only a matter of time until she forgave him.

And he wasn't going to let a single day go by without making sure she knew how deeply, fully, and completely he loved her.


	24. Kidnapped

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the chair. 'Not even a tiny hint?'

Behind him, Molly gave an indignant sniff.

'Molly,' he sighed, bordering on whinging. 'Please.'

'Oh, good God!' One of the men, dubbed by Sherlock as "Smelly" for obvious, unpleasant reasons, at the nearby table slammed his hand down and glowered at them. 'Don't make me gag you!'

Sherlock ignored the threat and wiggled his bound hands until they brushed against Molly's. 'Please, Molly. Tell me why you're angry with me.' Damn the kidnappers for putting them back to back!

'You're the genius detective, _you_ figure it out!' She snapped.

All three kidnappers groaned with Sherlock.

'Oh, that is the rottenest!' "Grumpy" declared hotly and threw his cards down. 'Carla uses that on me every time I screw up, biggest cop-out in the world of women!'

"Sir Burps-a-lot" nodded emphatically, before letting out a huge belch. 'S'like women 'spect us to be so perfect and then gets angry wit' us when we ain't!'

Sherlock, despite being repulsed by the amateur criminals, found himself nodding and agreeing. 'Exactly!' Unaware of how deeply he was digging his already _very_ deep hole, he blundered on. 'Everything was fine this morning; we had a bit of a lie-in, then shared a _very_ pleasant shower…'

The kidnappers chuckled wickedly and one had the audacity to wink at Molly.

'...after which, we went about our usual day. She made breakfast, waffles and sausage with melons and berries…'

The men licked their lips at the description.

'...I took a case and then before I knew it, everything went to Hell in a handbasket!'

The men shook their heads in sympathy, throwing out a 'been there, mate' somewhere in the midst.

Behind Sherlock, Molly huffed indignantly.

'So, tell me gentleman,' Sherlock looked upon his fellow men, 'how do I get out of this?'

"Grumpy" snorted and took a swig of beer. 'Ain't no way out of it, mate. You just gotta ride it through until she either tells ya and you can get to grovelling or she lets it go.'

Considering how angry and hurt Molly was, Sherlock estimated the likelihood of her letting whatever this was go to be less than 1%.

Well, he still had seven minutes before Lestrade arrived to arrest the kidnappers and free him and Molly. Plenty of time to wear down her resilience.

'Molly, love,' he purred, letting his deep voice rumble in the dank room. 'Please, tell me what I did wrong, so I can make it up to you.'

The kidnappers watched in rapt attention as Molly shook her head, her ponytail swinging. Sherlock felt the movement and rolled his eyes. This might be harder than he thought.

'Come on, luv, give your lad a teeny hint,' "Smelly" encouraged. 'He's tryin' to do right by ya.'

'Was it the experiment on Toby?'

Molly whipped her head to the side. ' _What experiment on Toby?'_

Rapidly backtracking, Sherlock forced a laugh. 'No experiment! J-just wanted to make sure you were actually listening to me.'

She hummed noncommittally. At least all the organic green dye had washed out of the cat's fur, so no evidence could be linked back to him.

He tried again. 'Did you run into Janine?'

Molly huffed and struggled against the bonds briefly.

'Ex-girlfriend?' "Sir Burps-a-lot" leaned forward, his elbows on the table. 'Crazies, the lot of 'em! But it ain't his fault, luv. Unless he's been seeing her on the sly…' He looked at Sherlock with a narrowed glare.

'Of course not!' Sherlock bit out. 'And she can hardly be considered an 'ex-girlfriend', as I was simply using her to-'

A chorus of indignant shouts came from the table.

'You don't use women, you slime-ball!' "Smelly" waved his bottle threateningly at Sherlock. 'And you certainly don't admit it to ya current lady-luv!'

'It's not-, oh, forget it,' Sherlock waved off their scoldings. He had three minutes left and was no closer to an answer than when they'd been taken.

'Molly, please,' he said tiredly. 'Please tell me what I did wrong.'

Twenty-seconds of heart-pounding silence passed before Molly said through clenched teeth,'What's the date, Sherlock?'

'October 27th,' he replied automatically, bringing up the calendar in his Mind Palace. There was an expectant silence following and he furrowed his brow. Was she expecting another date?

'And what occurred on October 27th exactly one year ago?' She prompted with an icy tone.

Immediately, all three kidnappers grimaced with deep groans.

'Oh, mate, you're completely screwed!' "Smelly" said in sympathy.

'Brought this on yourself,' "Grumpy" grumbled.

"Sir Burps-a-lot" simply shook his head.

'What? What happened today?' Sherlock looked at them in complete befuddlement. How could three strangers know the importance of a date between himself and his significant other and yet he have no idea?!

'Think about it, Sherlock,' Molly replied in a dangerously sweet voice. 'One year ago today, what were we doing?'

Sherlock frowned in thought and rewound his memories to 365 days previous. He'd solved a case the day before and had promptly collapsed in bed, exhausted. He'd woken up alone and for the first time, it had felt empty and wrong. So he'd gone to the one place he always felt alive and whole, despite being surrounded by death: the morgue. With Molly. He'd swept in, found her just finishing up her shift, and announced he was taking her to dinner. It was on the walk there, that he made the connection, that he loved her. And he wasn't going to waste any time. Over dinner, he'd wooed her and, despite her initial doubts, convinced her of his sincerity and his love.

'Oh, god,' he murmured.

'And there it is,' Molly grumbled.

'I forgot our anniversary,' he said in complete astonishment. 'How could I have forgotten? It's inconceivable! It's supposed to be marked in my mind on the calendar, I set warnings and alarms for the weeks leading up to it! How could I have forgotten?!'

'Sherlock, look, it's done now,' Molly tried to calm him down, but he kept on, his panic growing.

'I knew I'd cock this up, but I thought I'd last longer than a year! Oh, _god_ ,' he shouted. 'How do you put up with me? I'm selfish and forgetful, I've messed up so many times, like the time I forgot to meet you for dinner, or when I took a case right in the middle of sex-'

'Dude!' One of the kidnappers, Sherlock didn't care by now which one, shouted.

'-or when I dyed your cat green-'

'You what?!' Molly shrieked.

'I think that'll be enough, Sherlock,' a familiar voice spoke from the doorway. All three kidnappers turned in surprise and before they could even stand, Lestrade and his men had them cuffed and under arrest. As they were led outside to the waiting cop cars, Lestrade strolled over to the bound couple and smirked. 'I was planning to let you go, but if there's more you need to get off your chest, Sherlock…'

'Untie us, Gustavo,' Sherlock snapped, flushing red in embarrassment. Lestrade cut the ties around their legs and hands and helped Molly to her feet. She thanked him with a smile.

'Mycroft has a car outside to take you home when you're ready,' Lestrade said. 'I'll get your statements in the morning.' With that, he left the room, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone.

Rubbing the feeling back into her wrists, Molly looked over at Sherlock. His pale face was uncommonly red and he was purposefully avoiding her gaze.

'You think I put up with you?' She asked softly.

Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably.

Heart aching, Molly walked over and stood directly in front of him, so he had no choice but to look at her. Cupping his cheeks, she glared at him fiercely. 'You complete moron.'

His mouth gaped open in surprise, but before he could say anything, she yanked his face down and crashed her lips to his. He eagerly wrapped his arms around her and sank into the passion of her kiss.

'If you ever think for one moment that I _put up with you_ , I'll-I'll…!' Molly trailed off angrily, when they'd broken apart to breathe. She took a deep breath and clutched the lapels of his jacket, shaking him slightly. 'I was angry with you, yes, but I still love you. I always will. Every part of you, even when you're the most infuriating man on the Earth!'

Sherlock chuckled softly and braced his forehead against hers. 'And I love you, even when you're the most infuriating woman on the Earth!'

Punching his chest lightly, Molly smiled. 'Fair enough.'

'Now, we have exactly three hours remaining of our anniversary,' Sherlock declared and slipped her arm through his, leading her to the door. 'I can think of seven different ways to make this up to you in that time, once we get back to Baker Street.'

'Only seven?' Molly teased, with a wicked gleam in her eye. 'I can think of at least one more.'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in question.

Pulling her arm from his slowly, she stepped away. 'You forget that Mycroft has sent a car.'

Giggling, Molly ran for the door, an eager Sherlock on her heels.


	25. A Jealous Man

*St Bart's Canteen*  
 **Mary** : So, what's his name?  
 **Molly** : Frederick.  
 **Mary** : *leans forward eagerly* What's he like?  
 **Molly** : *smiles, dreamy eyed* Sweet and cuddly with big hazel eyes, so cute!  
 **Mary** : *giggles, a knowing smirk on her face* And ginger, I assume.  
 **Molly** : *groans* I can't help it! Gingers are my weakness!  
 **Sherlock** : *undercover in hoodie and jeans, growls and shoves away from the table behind Molly* Ginger, Molly? Really? Do you not recall my admonition that you avoid all attempts at a future relationship? This is the perfect example as to why. *scoffs* Ginger, indeed.  
 **Molly** : *gapes*  
 **Mary** : *smiles knowingly*  
 **Sherlock** : Now, where is this Francisco?  
 **Mary** : *puts hand over heart dramatically* Why, Mr Holmes, you do appear to be a bit jealous of the fair lady's attentions.  
 **Sherlock** : *glares at Mary* Of course I am. It isn't enough that the woman I love is oblivious to my feelings, but insists on dating a *shivers* ginger.  
 **Molly** : *stares, wide-eyed* You love me?  
 **Sherlock** : *rolls his eyes* Obviously. Do keep up, Moll-  
 **Molly** : *jumps up and snogs him rather enthusiastically*  
 **Mary** : *watches on, like a proud mama*  
 **Molly** : *pulls back* I love you, too.  
 **Sherlock** : *smugly holding his Molly* Good. Shall we pay dear Franklin a visit to let him know he can find his own girlfriend, instead of poaching mine?  
 **Mary** : *sniggers*  
 **Molly** : *flushes darker* Sherlock, Frederick isn't my boyfriend.  
 **Sherlock** : *frowns* He's not? What about the cuddliness and big hazel eyes and your weakness for gingers?  
 **Molly** : *bites her lip, smiling* He's a ginger tabby I just adopted.  
 **Sherlock** : *flushes dark red* Oh.


	26. Uncle Mycroft

Mycroft Holmes. The very name struck terror into the heart of world leaders. The Ice Man would appear seemingly out of thin air, his cold eyes staring down anyone who dared not cower under his gaze.

He brooked no insubordination and demanded the fiercest loyalty from those beneath him.

Women seduced by his aloof manner and emanating power were eviscerated verbally, for the Ice Man was no fool. Men loathed him out of spiteful jealousy, but he garnered their reluctant respect and none dared speak a word against him.

Yes, it was good to be Mycroft Holmes.

Except perhaps today.

'And the 'wan',' his charge demanded, forcing a glittery plastic stick into his clenched fist.

He sneered down at the object. A star made from the same plastic decorated the end and a tassle of ribbons were tied around the neck. To be fair, the colorful ribbons complemented the rainbow tutu and bejeweled tiara she'd foisted on him, as well as the play makeup she had insisted on applying to his cheeks and eyelids.

He'd drawn the line at lipstick.

'Perfeck!' Georgina exclaimed. She stepped back and looked at her Uncle Mycroft with her hands on her hips. Her wide grin and beseeching brown eyes were all Molly, but the mischievous gleam in her eye was a perfect mimic of her father.

Sherlock.

The very thought of his brother, the reason Mycroft was in this predicament, caused the Ice Man to scowl deeply.

'Smile, Unca Croft!' Georgina demanded. 'Happy!'

For some reason, this little curly-haired cherub had wrangled her way into his deeply hidden affections. And despite his grumpiness, Mycroft found himself smiling. With a wave of his wand, loose glitter flying about, he fell into character.

'Off to the ball with you!' He pitched his voice high, adopting his fairy godmother persona, and was chuffed when Georgina beamed.

oOo

*Two Hours Later*

Georgina had worn herself out dancing and playing after a while. Seeing her begin to droop, Mycroft had scooped her up and settled down on the couch. She had wrapped her little arms around his neck and fell asleep almost instantly.

Feeling the pull of sleep, as well, Mycroft began to doze and missed hearing the sound of the door below opening and two sets of footsteps on the stairs.

It wasn't until he heard snickering and the tell tale sound of a phone camera's shutter that he peeked one eye open.

Molly and Sherlock stood over them, biting back huge grins, tears of mirth in their eyes.

It took a moment for Mycroft to realise he was still dressed as the fairy godmother.

Crimson burned his cheeks and he scowled up at them. Carefully standing, he shifted Georgina over to her father and, with as much grace as he could muster under the circumstances, removed the tiara and tutu.

Molly took the costume items with a pinched smile, clearly holding back gales of laughter. Mycroft scowled and narrowed his eyes, muttering darkly, 'Whichever one of you dared to take that photo will delete it immediately. Understood?'

'It's very difficult to take you seriously when you look like that,' Sherlock whispered.

Whipping out his hankerchief, Mycroft dabbed the makeup from his face.

'It was so sweet of you to play with her, Mycroft,' Molly said quietly, placing a kiss on his cheek. Before she dropped to her heels, she whispered in his ear, 'Sherlock was the one who took the picture!'

Mycroft glared over her head at his brother.

Oh, he'd get his revenge, he thought darkly.

And it would be sweet.


	27. Unexpected

**Baby Holmes** : *tiptoes to the bed and whispers* Daddy?  
 **Sherlock** : *grunts and blinks one eye open* Whassamattah?  
 **Baby Holmes** : *scrambles onto the bed and cuddles up to Sherlock* We watched the Lion King at Uncle John's today.  
 **Sherlock** : *holds her close and whispers* Did that scare you?  
 **Baby Holmes** : *ducks her head* No. But I was just thinking... Scar hated his brother Mufasa. *bottom lip trembles* What if the new baby hates me?!  
 **Sherlock** : *blinks* What new baby?  
 **Baby Holmes** : *looks up at him with a knowing look* The one in Mummy's belly, obviously.  
 **Sherlock** : *buffers*  
 **Baby Holmes** : Daddy? *whispers louder* Daddy!  
 **Sherlock** : *recovers and beams at her* The new baby will love you so much; you'll be her or his overbearing, protective, brilliant sister and teach her everything you know. And she or he will always look up to you and love you, even if they never say it.  
 **Baby Holmes** : *smiles* Good.  
*An hour later*  
 **Sherlock** : *shakes his wife gently* Molly. Molly!  
 **Molly** : *jolts upright* What? What's wrong?  
 **Sherlock** : *drops a pharmacy bag in her lap*  
 **Molly** : *opens the bag* A pregnancy test? Sherlock, I'm not...  
 **Sherlock** : Humour me.  
 **Molly** : *grumbles and gets up* Wakes me up in the middle of the night to pee on a friggin' stick. He should be happy I love him...  
*Three minutes later*  
 **Molly** : *bursts from the bathroom and tackles Sherlock* We're having a baby!  
 **Sherlock** : *laughs and kisses her* Yes, we are!  
 **Molly** : *happy crying* How long have you known?  
 **Sherlock** : *chuckles* Since our daughter informed me 67 minutes ago.  
 **Molly** : *gapes*  
 **Sherlock** : *shrugs with a proud smile* She is our child.


	28. Mr Holmes and the Maid

**AN: Heading off for a much-needed vacation, so I'm throwing this early-1900s AU out there. It's been sitting in my draft folder for ages, so I finished it up quick and am gifting it to all you lovely Sherlollians! Happy October 8th!**

* * *

The warm sea air tugged at her hair, pulling it from the loose plait and brushing it across her face in a comforting caress. Here, in the quiet of her home village, Molly looked out across the moonlit water and for the first time in her life, felt she didn't belong.

Her heart ached for the home she'd made back in London. In the chaos of the city, the foggy nights and overcast days, the crowded streets and neverending noise.

The quaint flat on Baker Street.

The three cherubic girls with innocent smiles that belied the mischievousness in their twinkling eyes.

And their father.

Mr Holmes.

The reason she had run away.

oOo

She hadn't meant to fall in love with him.

It started as awe; his brilliance and intelligence drew Molly's thirsty mind to him. He had an awful manner with his 'clients', those who came to him for help. But he still helped them. And so Molly's awe faded into a deep respect.

She had expected him to be a distant father and that, in addition to being the housemaid, she would be the caregiver to the girls. But he surprised her. It had positively warmed her heart to see that he always was home to tuck them into bed with a story or lullaby on his violin; even the one time he had raced across London after having taken an unexpected dip in the murky Thames, his coat waterlogged and sweat mixing with the odor of the polluted waters.

That was the first time Molly had stood up to him. She'd barricaded the stairs with her significantly smaller person, knowing he could pick her up and move her out of his way if he wanted, but she didn't let that deter her. Arms akimbo and legs splayed, she'd demanded he rid himself of those clothes, burn them possibly, and at least rinse out his hair, before he came within ten feet of his girls.

He'd scowled, but begrudgingly did as he was told, muttering about bossy maids all the while.

And that night, as he'd regaled his daughters with the story of how he'd captured the criminal, despite having been shoved into the frigid Thames, Molly listened outside the door and smiled. Yes, it was obvious the girls adored him and he them.

More than a year passed in that manner. And Molly had been happy. Content.

Until the morning everything changed.

She had walked into the sitting room and found Mr Holmes standing in the middle, his girls in various stages of climbing him.

Georgina, the eldest, was sat upon his shoulders, her head nearly brushing the ceiling! Gillian, the middle child, had a latched herself onto his forearm and was dangling several inches off the floor, her feet kicking out. And Genevieve, the youngest at four now, had wrapped her arms and legs around his left leg, giggling as he pretended to have difficulty taking a step.

Their laughter filled the room and Molly's heart. She watched unseen for a moment, smiling at the sight.

But then Mr Holmes looked up, that smile still on his face, and caught her gaze.

In that instant, the entire world faded away and one thought consumed her.

She loved him.

Her smile faded and she found she couldn't look away.

The spell was broken when Mrs Hudson called out as she came up the stairs, breakfast tray in hand.

Molly blinked and looked away, gathering her wayward thoughts before following Mrs Hudson into the kitchen area and setting about preparing the meal.

She'd gone through the motions and watched briefly as Mr Holmes and the girls sat down. The entire scene was so homey and comforting, it filled her heart full to bursting.

Until the voice of reality broke over her like a pail of ice water.

 _This isn't yours to have._

If she'd given herself time, she could have talked herself into staying, pushing down whatever romantic notions her newfound feelings would bring and continuing on. But instead, she'd taken the cowardly way out and run that very night, away from the girls she adored and the man she loved.

Suddenly her melancholy thoughts were interrupted by a chorus of shouts and the sound of running feet.

'Miss Molly! Miss Molly!'

Heart skipping a beat, Molly gasped and she barely had time to whirl about before she found three pairs of arms wrapped around her, their grips like iron bands. She looked down to see three matching heads of black curls.

'Girls! What-What are you doing here?'

Georgina looked up at her, a frown on her face. 'You ran away. We've come to bring you home.'

'Obviously,' Gillian contributed, her voice muffled in Molly's skirts.

Mouth agape, Molly tried to make sense of their presence. If they had come all this way, they must have come with…

'Miss Hooper.'

She looked up at the man stepping out of the shadows.

 _Mr Holmes._

oOo

Sherlock stared at the woman he loved. Her brown eyes were wide with shock and hope. His heart ached that she had run away in the face of her feelings for him. Had she really not known that his heart had belonged to her for some time now?

'I don't understand,' she whispered.

Sherlock approached her slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. 'For an intelligent, brave, unconventional woman, Miss Hooper, you have acted very cowardly.'

She flushed with guilt and averted her gaze, regret bringing tears to her eyes. Her hands strayed to the girls' heads, her fingers running through their curls. Warmth suffused his chest at the sight. She was more a mother to his daughters than that cowardly woman who'd born them and scampered off to her inevitable death.

Stopping just out of reach, the girls still between them, he tilted her chin up with his finger. His stomach turned over at the shame in her chocolate brown eyes.

'When faced with your feelings, you behaved like any average woman would in your situation. Thinking your feelings weren't reciprocated, and fearing heartbreak should you stay, you fled.' His soft smile belied the words he spoke next, 'I should be frustrated with you for making me act like this.'

Her brow furrowed in question. Resting his hands on the girls' shoulders, he never took his gaze from Miss Hooper's. With a gentle push, the girls let go of her and moved away. He could see them from the corner of his eye, their eyes wide and hopeful.

'Only for you, Miss Hooper,' he said softly, reaching out and cupped her face with his hands. He could feel the pounding of her heartbeat against his fingertips. 'Only for you would I act like a romantic fool and chase after the woman I love.'

Her eyes widened and her lips parted in surprise. Slowly, he lowered his head. Her breath warmed his lips and he felt a tingle of anticipation. Then his lips touched hers and everything else fell away.

oOo

The moment he kissed her, Molly's eyes fell close and she knew she could never leave.

This. This was home.

This was the comfort of long evenings sitting by the fire, reading to the girls. Listening to Mr Holmes play his violin.

This was experiments and cases, the thrill of an unexpected discovery.

This was inexplicable joy, the rush of knowledge that she is loved by this man utterly and completely.

Pulling back to breathe, leaving a shorter, gentle kiss on her lips, Mr Holmes smiled deeply, the lines around his eyes crinkling. Molly bit her lip shyly and smoothed down his lapels, not realising she had been grasping them in her fists.

'Does this mean you're going to be our mother?' Genevieve interrupted excitedly.

The question brought Molly up short. But before she could stutter an answer, Mr Holmes looked down at her with a raised eyebrow and a wide smile.

'What do you say, Miss Hooper? Molly?' Her Christian name rolling off his tongue in that delightful baritone sent shivers down Molly's spine. He stepped back and dropped down on one knee, taking her hands in his. 'Will you be the mother of my daughters and take me in the bargain?'

Disbelieving, Molly gaped down at him. Her heart was thundering and she could barely form a coherent thought. His heart-stopping eyes were staring up at her so expectantly. She looked over at the girls and saw the same blue-green eyes staring back at her in triplicate.

Mr Holmes squeezed her hands to bring her attention back to him. He tilted his head toward the girls and quipped, 'They'll never forgive me if I let you slip away for good. Please don't leave me at their mercy.'

Laughing, Molly finally nodded. 'Yes, yes, of course! Of course, Mr Holmes!'

Tears of happiness slipped out of the corner of her eyes as Mr Holmes beamed and jumped up. His long arms came around her waist and he swung her around, to her exclaimed delight.

When he set her back down on her feet, he took a moment to press a kiss to her lips and say, 'That's 'Sherlock' to you, _Molly_.'

They pulled apart slightly, Mr Holmes... _Sherlock..._ keeping his arm around her waist, holding her to him, and turned to the girls, who rushed toward them. Molly lifted Gillian up, hugging her close. Georgina leaned into her side and Genevieve clamored for her father to pick her up.

'I shall call you _Mummy_ not Mother,' Gillian told Molly quite seriously, a furrow in her brow.

Heart light, Molly beamed and nuzzled her nose against Gillian's. 'I'd love that.'

Sherlock looked down at her, love shining in his eyes. 'Ready to go home?'

Smiling widely, Molly closed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder. 'Yes, please.'


	29. I'll Follow You

**AN: Back from a lovely, albeit brief, vacation and powering through my many, many, many unfinished drafts (there are a ton... a TON). And found one inspired by the ending of my favourite chick-flick, How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days! :)**

 **Pretty much gratuitous Sherlock-groveling, motorcycle-chasing, sappy happy ending!**

* * *

The murmur of voices broke through Sherlock's thoughts and he slowly withdrew from his Mind Palace. Opening his eyes, he took in the battered wall of his flat tacked over with clues from a case he hadn't wanted to take and breathed in deep.

 _Ah. John and Mary._

He listened to their whispered conversation from the kitchen. He heard the name _Molly_ drift over and his stomach clenched. It had been five weeks since that night.

The night he'd solved the Fauxriarty case. The night he burst into her flat to make sure she was safe. The night they slept together. The night he snuck away, leaving her rumpled and smiling peacefully in her sleep.

He had purposefully avoided her ever since.

'What about Molly?' He bit out as he strode into the kitchen. John and Mary looked up at him in surprise, then exchanged uncertain, almost guilty looks.

John heaved a breath and stood up, Mary following suit. John crossed his arms and stared Sherlock down. The army doctor was not one to beat around the bush, one of the many reasons Sherlock kept him around. But this time, the doctor's frankness knocked Sherlock's world off its axis.

'Molly's leaving.'

Sherlock froze.

'She took a job in Edinburgh.' By the look she was giving him, Mary knew Sherlock had done something to cause Molly's sudden decision to leave London. 'She leaves today.'

For the span of two heartbeats the three of them stood in an odd staring match. Then, in the blink of an eye, Sherlock spun on his heel and with an almost inhuman speed was out the door and running down the stairs.

John and Mary looked at each other in surprise (with just a hint of an 'I told you so' smile on Mary's face) before they scrambled after him. They burst out into the bright mid-day sun just in time to see Sherlock commandeer a passing motorcyclist. He grabbed the helmet from the confused man and tossed something at him before revving the engine, the tyres squealing, and he shot down Baker Street.

The motorcycle-less driver gaped at his disappearing bike, holding a police badge belonging to a Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

A laugh bubbled out of John's mouth and he pulled Mary against his side as they stared after their friend. 'He'd better ask me to be his best man.'

* * *

Adrenaline surged through Sherlock as he sped through the London streets toward Molly's flat. Molly couldn't leave. She was integral to his work. To London. To _him_. How could she leave?

 _Maybe because you bedded her then slipped away like an average scumbag._ He shoved away John's unwelcome voice. He already knew he was a pillock and what he'd done to Molly was unforgivable.

But he desperately hoped that her almost inhuman ability to forgive could extend to him again.

He swerved out of the way of a merging car, causing a chorus of horns to sound around him, which he ignored completely, focused solely on getting to Molly before she left.

He'd been hiding away, losing himself in mediocre cases, to avoid facing what he'd done. Oh, he had no regrets of the night they'd shared. And though the way he'd left was the lowest of the low, that wasn't what made his stomach turn the most.

No. The worst thing he'd done was not tell her what she meant to him. That she was his everything.

Turning onto Grosvenor, Sherlock skidded to a stop at a light. Between the passing cars in front of him, he could see Molly standing outside her flat, hugging her landlady as a cab idled nearby. The old woman dabbed her tears and waved goodbye as Molly let the cabbie take her bag. Sherlock flipped up his visor.

'Molly!' He bellowed, but his voice was lost in the thrum of traffic. She slid into the back and the cab pulled away from the curb. Away from him. Sherlock revved the engine and was about to go full speed through the intersection when the horn of a double-decker brought him up just short of being clipped by the bus. When the bus passed, Molly's cab had disappeared into the sea of cars.

The light turned and Sherlock was gone, his body low as he wove through cars. He slowed down as he came parallel to a black cab and looked in the back.

No Molly.

He sped up and circled around to the next cab. He leaned over to look in the back and found an elderly couple staring back at him in confusion.

Three more cabs and no Molly.

He was getting panicked now, which only made him that much more determined to find her.

A cab several cars ahead turned right and he caught a glimpse of a familiar head of brown hair in the back.

 _Molly!_

Pushing the bike to its limit, Sherlock sped through a light and took the corner hard, his knee almost grazing the ground.

Among the London traffic on this street was a single black cab.

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. Quickly, he caught up to the cab and came alongside it. Flipping up his visor, he saw Molly looking out the opposite window.

'Molly!' He shouted, banging his fist on the window. She jumped and turned to him with wide eyes.

'Sherlock?' She mouthed, scooting over and rolling the window down. The wind whipped her hair around her furious and confused face. 'What the hell are you doing?!'

'We need to talk!' He glanced back at the road then back at her. 'Pull over!'

'Are you insane?!'

'Pull over!'

Gaping at him for a moment, Molly finally leaned forward and asked the poor, confused cabbie to pull over. They slowed to a stop and Sherlock kicked the stand down on the bike, pulling his helmet off and tossing it aside as Molly jumped out of the back and slammed the door shut behind her.

'What the _hell_ do you think you're doing? You could have been _killed_!' Her eyes flashed dangerously and he had a sudden flashback to the Slapping Incident. The sun overhead illuminated the red-gold highlights in her hair and he swore for a moment she looked like an avenging angel.

Sherlock swung his leg over the bike and strode over to her, ignoring her gesticulating hands.

'-no longer your pathologist, so find yourself someone else to manipul-mmmpfff!'

He cut her off with his lips, one hand wrapped around the back of her neck and the other around her waist. Her arms windmilled and she stiffened in surprise. He persisted, his heart pounding in anxious anticipation. Finally, she relaxed and her lips moved against his, turning a desperate kiss into a passionate snog. Her hands gripped his shoulders and she leaned up on her toes, curling her body into his and wrapping her arms around his neck.

The cabbie's honk broke them apart, breathless and panting.

'Molly, I...' He tried not to, but the tinge of desperation in his voice came through clear. He rested his forehead against hers. Her breath caressed his neck and he shivered.

'What… are you… doing?' She huffed and moved her hands down to his chest, punching him lightly over his pounding heart. Pulling back, she looked up at him. Her eyes were wide and her lips reddened and swollen (not altogether unappealing, though he knew he could do better). He reached up and cupped her cheek, ignoring the grumbling cabbie watching them in distaste.

'Trying to convince you to stay.'

Hurt and anger flashed across her face and he rushed on.

'Stay here… with me.'

She looked at him dubiously.

'I've been an idiot,' he admitted. 'I am so, so sorry for leaving you that morning. I was a coward and all I can do is beg you to forgive me and give me another chance.' He took a deep breath. 'And I won't screw it up this time. Because I love you. So much. Please, Molly. Please tell me I haven't lost you.'

Tears filled her eyes and he felt his thundering heart plunge into his stomach. Then her lips turned up in a wobbly smile. 'Sherlock Holmes… begging.' Her eyes twinkled.

An answering smile crossed Sherlock's face and his heart suddenly felt as light as air. 'Only for you, Molly.'

Lifting herself onto her tip toes, she wrapped her hands around his neck and tugged him down for a sweet, brief kiss. 'I love you, too. My genius idiot.'

He was just about to steal another kiss when the gruff voice of the cabbie stopped him. 'What you wan' do, lady? I can't waste all day waiting for your lad to get a leg over!'

Molly blushed bright red and the sight of it distracted Sherlock from snapping a reply. Instead, without breaking his gaze from Molly, he reached into his pocket and tossed the man a badge and wallet he'd nicked from Dimmock. 'Take the lady's belongings to 221b Baker Street.' Molly's eyes widened. 'She has other means of transportation.'

With a mumbled curse, the cabbie got back in his car and pulled away. Sherlock took Molly's hand and tugged her toward the bike. He swiped the discarded helmet from the ground and put it on, handing the spare from the back to her with a raised eyebrow.

Grinning madly, she slipped it on and swung onto the bike behind him. He kicked up the stand and turned the motor on.

'Hold on tight,' he called, revving the engine. Her arms slid around his waist and he felt warm all over at the press of her front against the length of his back.

'Always,' she promised.

With a wide grin, Sherlock pushed off the ground and leaned forward, merging into traffic.


	30. A Most Unsuitable Arrangements Part I

**AN: A little Victorian drabble :)**

Watson snorted and jolted awake, running a hand over his face.

'Please tell me that we have arrived,' the doctor grumbled.

'Just about,' Holmes replied, not looking away from the passing London streets. The early morning fog wound around each building as their carriage rolled along the cobblestone.

'Our wives will certainly be glad for us to be home,' Watson remarked idly. 'Though she never wrote it in her letters, Mary did hint at being worried about us.'

Holmes hummed distractedly.

'How did Mrs Holmes seem? Married not yet three months and you called away for a case in Scotland. I can't imagine it was an easy decision for you to take it.'

'Why would it not be?' Holmes finally turned and looked at his friend, a frown on his face. 'I agreed to this marriage arrangement under the condition that she understand my work comes first.'

Watson shook his head. 'She's your wife, Holmes. You need to understand that now there is another person in that little world you inhabit and you need to have a care how you treat her.' He furrowed his brow in thought. 'Did you write to her at all during this case? Reassure her of your safety?'

Holmes rolled his eyes. 'How many times must I tell you, when I am on a case, I have no need for distractions, especially of the 'marital' kind. She knew this when she agreed to the arrangement.'

'Bloody hell, Holmes! A whole month without a word from you? You never sent her a letter or anything? Not so much as a telegram? She must think you dead!'

'Oh, don't be ridiculous, Watson.' Holmes waved him off. 'If she were so inclined to think so, I am sure either my brother or your wife would assure her of my continued existence. Why should I be expected to waste valuable time doing such an unnecessary, domesticated chore?'

Watson gaped at him, then grimly shut his mouth and shook his head. 'You're a fool, Sherlock Holmes. A bloody fool.'

oOo

It was just past 7 when Sherlock strode through the front door of his Baker Street home. Having dropped Watson off at his house beforehand and witnessing Mrs Watson rush outside to welcome her husband home with a warm smile and open arms, Sherlock had spent the remaining ten minutes ride fighting down an unfamiliar sense of foreboding and the stranglehold of guilt.

Perhaps he should have taken a moment or two during the case to send word to his own wife. He barely knew her beyond what Mycroft had told him when he'd drafted the contract, but as their first few months of marriage passed he found himself contemplating the mystery of her. Shy, a bit bumbling, not at all the sort of woman he'd expected his brother would force him to marry. But the inheritance her late father had left her, on the condition of her marrying, was enough to keep him happily solving crimes until a ripe old age, should he live to see the day. And she would be free to do…. well, whatever it was a woman of society did. Embroidery, gossip, and other such ridiculous frippery, he'd assumed, bracing himself for a life of mindless chittering.

Yet, to his surprise, she had slid into his life with ease, leaving him to his experiments and cases, but nearby with a cup of tea or some bread before he knew he needed it. She quietly read or scribbled in that journal of hers while he sojourned into his Mind Palace. She listened as he talked himself through his cases and experiments. She offered the occasional question that, on more than one instance, had led him to the right conclusion.

She had been perfectly attuned to what he'd needed in a companion. But truth be told, he knew very little of her. And until this moment, he'd never considered it a bad thing.

Tossing his coat over the banister, he strode down the hall. Upon entering the lounge, he found it practically undisturbed from how he'd left it. His violin rested on the table, his music sheets scattered haphazardly about, his books and notes on his experiments were in disarray on the coffee table.

Nothing in the room spoke of another person living here. In short, there was nothing to warrant the growing sense of unease in his gut. His wife's things were relegated solely to her room and her timidity prevented her from encroaching on what she considered his space. Yet there was something amiss in the empty room that sent a foreboding rolling over him.

Sherlock spun on his heel and made for the stairs, taking them two at a time. The door at the top was cracked open and he shoved it open, letting it bang against the wall, and came to dead stop.

He had not been upstairs since they'd been married. The only time they had shared a room, his bed, had been their wedding night. But he had slipped out while she slept. When she came to him the next morning and said she would take the upper room for herself, he had assumed she was as uncomfortable with their arrangement as he was and wanted her own space.

His heart pounded and his hands clenched into fists at his side as he took in the room: bed was made and hadn't been slept in for at least four nights and a thin layer of dust had settled on the nightstand and bureau. He stormed over to the wardrobe and flung open the doors, staring in growing horror at the empty rack.

She hadn't given him space because it was what she wanted; no, she'd done it because she thought it was what he had wanted.

Watson had been correct.

He was a fool.

* * *

 **Did I forget to mention this will be a two-parter? ;)**


	31. A Most Surprising Realisation Part II

**Part 2 of "A Most Unsuitable Arrangement"**

 **AN: Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, followed, and encouraged me on this fic! I hope this next part lives up to the first! :)**

* * *

She'd left.

He had pushed her away and gotten what he'd wanted; a solitary life.

She had not left even a note. Just an empty wardrobe, an empty room.

 _An empty life._

He was surprised by the sudden thought. But as he turned it over in his mind, he realised that that was how he felt. He looked around the room and the feeling of loss in his chess worsened.

He lowered himself onto the small bed and wondered when what he wanted had changed.

He had left on the case three weeks ago perfectly content with his life. Molly had barely flitted into his peripheral, yet her sudden absence when he returned had shaken his world. To his surprise, he began to realise that, though he had not often outwardly acknowledged her presence, she had made herself invaluable to his way of life.

He needed her.

He frowned.

No.

He _wanted_ her.

She had fit into his life in a way he never expected; quietly and patiently. Looking back, he saw now the brightness in her eyes, the intelligence that he had never let himself acknowledge. He had looked upon her as simply a means to an end, one step up from his skull in terms of talking companions. And his ignorance to just how important she was to him was rooted in fear. That he would come to care for her and fall prey to a weakness he could not afford.

Yet she had done what he had tried to make impossible and wound her way so intricately into his life, and his heart, that her leaving had ripped open a wound that he did not think could ever be stitched closed.

The sudden realisation of his feelings… and the loss his blindness, no, his _cowardice_ , had cost him… was suffocating and he dropped his head into his hands with an aggravated shout.

From below, the door to the loud London streets opened and closed. A familiar cadence of steps sounded up the stairs, continuing up to the upper level. The tip of an umbrella passed in front of Sherlock's view and he raised his head.

'Hello, brother dear.'

'Where is she?' Sherlock demanded without preamble.

Mycroft looked over his brother. With a raised eyebrow, he sat down beside Sherlock and rested his hands atop his brolly's handle. 'She is staying with Anthea and myself. Until this evening.'

Sherlock looked over, the knot of dread in his stomach tightening.

'She is to leave on the night train for her mother's estate in Manchester. She intends to remain there for the duration of your marriage. Should you choose to divorce, I shall see to it that the both of you have no damage to your reputations and the financial contract is dissolved.'

The ache in his chest threatened to overwhelm him and Sherlock quickly stood, pacing away from his brother to hide the sudden burn of tears.

'However,' Mycroft continued in a soft tone. 'She is willing to consider another option.'

Sherlock held his breath.

'A ruse, as it were. You and she will remain married, but in name only. With the exception of the occasional social outing, no more than four times each year, for appearance's sake, she will remain in Manchester and you will lead your separate lives.'

Sherlock spun around and fought against the horror welling up inside at his brother's words.

'You will continue to have access to her monthly stipend, but you are to have no contact with her whatsoever apart from previously stated social outings.' Mycroft stood and brushed off his trousers. 'Those are the choices she has laid out for you, brother mine.'

A crushing weight threatened to suffocate him. Sherlock stumbled back a step and hit the wall.

 _No. No, I can't lose her. Not when I've just found out what she means to me!_

Mycroft stood and walked toward the door. When he stood just beside Sherlock, he paused. 'However…'

Sherlock looked over at him, only a thin thread of hope holding him together.

Mycroft kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead, but the lines around his eyes softened. 'She cares for you. If you were to properly make amends and open your heart to the possibility that you might come to love your wife, I believe you will be able to convince her to return.'

Sherlock considered his brother's words. Could he see himself falling in love? Being a true husband, in every sense of the word?

The image of Molly sitting on the settee, listening happily as he rattled on about a case or experiment, the small smile on her face, as if she was truly happy, flitted across his mind.

Yes. Despite his doubts and previous scorn of love, he could easily see himself coming to love his wife. And in his heart, he knew he was already falling.

'Will you take me to her?'

Mycroft tilted his head. 'Yes. But if she refuses you…'

Sherlock laid his hand on his brother's shoulder and Mycroft turned to him. 'I will accept it as the consequence of my actions. But I refuse to let her go without doing everything within my power to convince her to stay.'

* * *

 **Okay, only one more part, I promise! This just got really too long and this was the best place to cut it off. So the third and final part will be reeeaaalllly long, but hopefully worth it! :)**


	32. A Most Repentant Fool Part III

**AN: And here is the final part of "A Most Unsuitable Arrangement"!**

* * *

The morning fog was lifting, revealing a shimmering dew in the rising sunlight. The hem of her light gown was damp, but Molly paid it no mind as she walked across the yard. As it had been for the previous mornings of her stay, she had awoken early, wrapped herself in a shawl to ward off the chill and slipped outside. Mycroft's estate was one of the largest in the area with roaming gardens and pathways. But Molly preferred the unkempt hillside on the western edge.

As the fog faded she could see for miles. The morning sun rose behind her and slowly the shadowed land grew in light.

Yet despite the calm surrounding her, Molly's thoughts were in turmoil.

Her marriage was a sham. Not uncommon, as many couples were together simply for financial or strategic reasons, their marriages filled with anything but love. But Molly had always hoped that she would be one of the lucky few to marry for love.

She scoffed and wiped away a tear.

She wasn't sure what was worse. Being contracted into marriage with a stranger.

Or falling in love with him knowing he would never give her a second glance.

She had lived in his peripheral for months. All her attempts to fit into his life only made her fade into the background, like the wallpaper in his home. Unless he actually sat down and focused on her, it was as if she ceased to exist in his mind.

And when he suddenly disappeared for weeks, her worry led her to inquire after his friend, Dr Watson. His wife, Mary, with soft sympathetic eyes, had reassured her that their husbands had left for Scotland, of all places!

It was in that moment that she realised she truly meant nothing to her husband.

Heartbroken, she had packed her few belongings and left Baker Street. It wasn't home, it never had been and never would be. Head held high, she had made her way to the train station with every intent to return to her mother's home in Manchester.

Waiting for her at the station was her brother-in-law and his wife. They had encouraged her to stay with them for a time as it had been a long time since she had been to visit.

She knew they hoped to convince her to stay in London and had hesitated to accept their offer. But in the end, her fondness for the couple overruled her desire to flee immediately, and they had enjoyed a lovely week together with no mention of her husband, though she had caught Mycroft watching her with a determined frown more than once. He had been kind enough to keep his thoughts to himself, a trait his brother lacked.

But now she had come to the end of her welcome. It was time for her to cut the ties that bound her to London, to a one-sided marriage, and move on.

The sound of someone walking through the tall grass behind her pulled her from her thoughts and she turned. The brightness of the sun momentarily blinded her and she narrowed her eyes at the silhouette in the distance.

Her breath left her in a rush when she realised it was her husband was coming toward her. The sun shone behind him and gave him an unearthly aura. As he got closer, she could make out the reddish hues in his unkempt curls and she found herself admiring the roguish look he exuded with his partly unbuttoned shirt and flapping coat.

She flushed in embarrassment when she remembered she hadn't put her hair up or put on perfume. But then, he had never seemed to notice whether or not she had made an effort with her appearance, so she lifted her chin slightly and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, crossing her arms in front of her.

If he had come here to convince her to return, she would stand her ground.

And if he had come to agree to a divorce, she would barricade her heart and not let him see a single tear.

oOo

How could he have not realised it?

With the soft light of the morning sun gracing her face, golden strands shimmering in her unbound hair, she was beautiful. He glanced down at her hand and a rush of relief swept over him to see she still wore the simple wedding band he'd placed on her finger at their wedding.

 _She still cares. There is still hope for me to fix this._

Sherlock came to a stop just out of arm's reach. They stood in silence for a few moments, neither sure what to say.

Knowing the burden of speech fell to him, Sherlock clasped his hands behind him and cleared his throat. 'I understand you intend to return to Manchester.'

Molly breathed in deeply and lifted her chin higher. If she was surprised by his abrupt, to-the-point statement, she did not show it. 'There is nothing for me here.'

 _Yes. Yes, there is._

'You seek a divorce, then?' _Please, give me a sign that you care for me, that I can convince you to stay._

She clenched the fabric of her shawl and he didn't miss the forced bravado in her voice as she replied, 'If that is what you want.'

'No!' He burst out in a panic. Her eyes widened in surprise and he flushed at the vehemence of his declaration. They stared at each other in stunned silence for a moment.

'No,' Sherlock softened his tone and his expression. 'I don't want that at all.'

Molly's face contorted with anger. 'Then what do you want?' She cried out, throwing her arms out in frustration.

Sherlock stepped back in surprise. He had never before seen her lose her temper and it was a sight to behold! Her eyes blazed bright and the apples of her cheeks burned red with fury. All this time, she had been treading softly around him, afraid to upset the status quo, yet trying to build a life with him. Now she had nothing left to lose.

 _What was that saying...? Ah, yes_. 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.'

'What do you want of me?' She exclaimed. 'Tell me! Because I tried my best to fit into your life, to make the transition easier for you. And you never noticed me; I know neither of us wanted this arrangement, but I tried to make it work.'

His stomach clenched and shame washed over him.

'Then you went away to _Scotland_ without even bothering to let me know you were _alive_ and I realised I'm barely a housemaid to you, let alone a wife. And now you say you don't want me to leave and you look at me as if I suddenly matter to you!' Her eyes glistened with angry tears. 'You are the _most_ confounding man I have ever had the misfortune of meeting, Mr Holmes! So tell me, what is it you want of me?!'

'You!'

Her eyes widened and her lips parted in surprise at his declaration. Sherlock's heart broke at the hurt and sadness and anger he'd caused her. Cautiously, he stepped closer and took her hand. She flinched at his touch, but did not pull away.

'I want you.' In every softly-spoken word, he tried to convey every ounce of regret and hope he felt in that moment. He swiped a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb. 'I have been an unforgivable fool. And I can only hope and pray that you will do the impossible and forgive me.'

Disbelief and wariness were writ across her face, but he could see the vulnerable hope in her eyes.

He glanced at her lips, the longing he felt for her rushing over him in a sudden wave, and he slowly bent down, giving her time to pull away. His heart filled with joy when she didn't move and when his lips touched hers, she let out a soft whimper and her eyes fell shut. Her hands came up and curled around his lapel as she shyly returned his kiss.

For a second, his heart stopped and an anticipatory calm stopped his racing mind.

Then suddenly all his senses were aflame. He could feel her heartbeat against his fingertips and the taste of her was a promising addiction. The soft feel of her lips sent a surprisingly delightful sensation of shivers down his spine and a warmth suffused his chest, like the comfort of a warm fire on a cold London night.

It hadn't been like this before. Their wedding night had been impersonal, dutiful, and as cold as the act could be.

He inwardly cursed himself for his blindness in overlooking the woman in his arms. This beautiful, intelligent, warm creature was his _wife_ and he almost lost her.

Here, with her in his embrace, was home.

Overwhelmed, Sherlock broke the kiss, but kept his face near hers and took several deep breaths to center himself. Her eyes were closed and she sighed softly before looking up at him.

'I'm sorry,' he whispered. 'Please stay. Give this fool another chance.'

She swallowed and searched his face. Her brow furrowed endearingly in thought and he found himself holding his breath as he waited for her to speak.

Then, to his dismay, she stepped back, her hands trailing briefly down his chest before she moved out of his reach. She swallowed thickly and looked down at her hands. Her fingers played with her wedding ring. She twisted the metal band three times and to Sherlock each turn was another twist of his heart.

'If I stay,' she began cautiously, 'things have to change.' She looked up at him, her eyes resolute. 'I won't be relegated to a background accessory used only when needed and ignored the remainder of the time. I will be an equal in this marriage.'

He coloured in shame and nodded. 'I can't promise I won't revert back to my old ways at times; I have never before courted a woman and am woefully unpracticed in the art of romance. I may require some reminders and assistance at times, but I will try to be the husband you deserve. Now that I realise I want to be one,' he added with a quick smile.

Hope flared in his heart when she smiled a little in response.

'I'd like to court you, Molly Holmes. Properly. And show you that your heart will be safe with me, as I know mine will be with you.' He moved toward her and took her hand, holding it against his chest so she could feel the pounding of his heart. 'So what say you? Will you come home to me?'

She bit her lip and considered him, her thoughts practically screaming at him. He fought against the urge to grimace, sure that her logical conclusion would be to not even try. He was a pitiful excuse of a romantic and would surely fail to be the husband she deserved, but he would do everything in his power to try.

'Yes.'

Time seemed to stop as her soft answer fell between them.

'Yes?' He breathed.

She smiled softly and nodded. 'Yes.'

His breath left him in a rush of relief and he leaned down to rest his forehead against the crown of her head. She slipped her hand from beneath his and hesitantly wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his chest. Sherlock smiled. He could quite easily become accustomed to the way she fit perfectly in his embrace.

He had a long way to go earning her trust and her heart, but he'd made the first step.

They may have been broken, but they were not beyond repair.

* * *

 _ **Okay, here's the deal. I wrote three different endings.**_ _ **This was the original ending and the one I am most satisfied with.**_

 _ **The others are either emotionally devastating or inexplicably cheesey. I may add one or both in later on as an alternate ending... maaaybeeeee.**_

 _ **Anyway, I hope I made the right choice and you are all satisfied with the ending! It's hard to write a repentant Sherlock without having Molly crumble right away (I mean, who wouldn't crumble at those eyes and cheekbones and gravely voice?!)**_

 _ **Thank you all for reading and for your lovely words of encouragement! It's been fun! :)**_

 _ **Love you all!**_  
 _ **Sky**_

 ** _PS: Thanks to Bellarsam Chrisjulittle! Totally forgot to make a note of the Pride and Prejudice-inspired scene right in the middle there! (Imagine Mr Darcy striding toward Elizabeth through the dewey, foggy morning... *sighs*) Maybe I shouldn't watch movies whilst writing. :)_**


	33. Her Protector

Sherlock ascended the stairs of Baker Street slowly, trying to determine what was off. He had rushed into the foyer, as usual, but froze at the foot of the staircase as something triggered his defenses. Grabbing one of the umbrella's he'd stolen from Mycroft, most likely the one with the hidden taser, he continued quietly upstairs, trying to find any evidence for why he felt disconcerted.

The doors were closed, as he had left them. No sounds came from inside the flat and he carefully turned the doorknob and stepped into the lounge. The moonlight and streetlights from outside cast eerie shadows in the chaos of 221b and his eyes immediately landed on the man sitting in his chair, dressed in a tailored suit and his face hidden in shadow.

'Mr Holmes,' the man's gravelly voice greeted him.

For seven seconds, Sherlock deduced the man, before leaning the brolly against the wall and taking the armchair across from the intruder. 'I'd offer tea, but I'm afraid I wasn't expecting company,' he quipped.

The man turned his face and Sherlock caught a glimpse of brilliantly blue eyes, lined with stories and sorrows. 'Time is precious to both of us, so let us skip the pleasantries and quibbling neither of us care for.'

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. 'Very well. Tell me, what have I done to warrant a visit from MI6? Surely Mycroft wouldn't send one of his best on an errand to fetch me.'

'M is unaware of my presence here. I made sure of that,' the man replied.

'I have no doubt of that. But you have not answered my question. Why are you here?' Sherlock was beginning to lose patience, though his interest was piqued as much as it had ever been.

The man leaned forward, the bands of light running across his white-blond hair. A strip of light rested across his eyes and Sherlock fought against the unsettling desire to put distance between himself and the intensity of those eyes. 'You, Mr Holmes. You have been on my radar for some time, always on the very edge, but now you have become an issue. One I'd like to see… resolved.'

Sherlock frowned, ignoring the shiver that ran up his spine at the gleeful lilt with which the man spoke. 'I fail to see how I have been an issue; none of my current cases have any ties, however remotely, to MI6.'

'Not a case, Mr Holmes.' If possible, the man's stare darkened further. 'This is a family matter.'

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. 'You have no family. The only recruits are those without emotional ties, thus reducing significantly complications in the field and the government's responsibility when you are inevitably killed in action.'

The man didn't respond. Sherlock glanced down at the unconscious twitch in the man's fingers and he smirked.

'You lied.'

The man hesitated and clenched his fists. 'Yes.'

Sherlock looked at him carefully. 'A sibling… sister.'

The blonde nodded once. 'Annie and I were born eleven years apart. When our parents died, she was only 8. It was the hardest decision of my life, not to be her guardian. But I would have destroyed her.' He closed his eyes and refocused himself into the hardened agent he was. 'She was adopted by a barren couple and given the love she deserved; she had everything I ever wanted for her. Knowing that she was safe made it easier for me to cut myself from her life and work my way into MI6. She believes that I was killed in an ambush twelve years ago in Afghanistan. I adopted a pseudonym and had my past wiped clear of family; to the government I am an only child, an orphan, and alone. Her history, as well. There is nothing to possibly tie me to her.'

Suddenly, the man reached into his jacket and pulled out a Beretta 418, the muzzle flashing ominously in the light as he pointed it directly between Sherlock's eyes.

'Until you.'

Sherlock swallowed, the sound lost as the man pulled the hammer back. He recognized the gun from the files he'd stolen from Mycroft and it wasn't difficult to put it together with the rest to determine who exactly was sitting across from him. And it shook him to his core.

James Bond, 007, one of MI6's most notorious agents, was a ghost. If you met him, either you didn't know it or you were facing imminent death. And staring down the barrel of the infamous Beretta 418, Sherlock knew which category he fell under.

Bond's face, already hidden in shadow, darkened further as he leaned forward. 'You have put her in danger with your crime-solving, vigilante antics. I didn't sacrifice our relationship, let her believe me to be dead, only for someone to put a bullet through her heart because of a bastard like you.'

Faking a calm he most certainly did not feel, Sherlock leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. 'I assure you, I have done nothing to endanger your sister, Mr Bond. In fact, I do not even know an Annie.' Sighing, he dropped his hands dramatically and turned his face away. 'What is Mycroft thinking, recruiting middle-aged idiots to do his legwork?'

The gun did not waver from its target. 'My sister's name, Mr Holmes, is Ann Margaret.'

Sherlock turned back with a disinterested raise of his brows.

'You may know her better as Molly. Molly Hooper.'

His heart stuttered in his chest and he felt the air leave his lungs in a rush.

Bond miled coldly. 'So you do know her.'

'M-Molly Hooper… is your sister.' Oblivious to the stutter and the waver in his voice, Sherlock managed to piece several thoughts together.

Bond tilted his head and the light caught his blue eyes once more. From what Sherlock had seen, nothing about the man was anything like Molly Hooper; where she was pale and fair, Bond was dark and tanned, she had brown hair tinged with red highlights, his cropped hair was white-blonde, her eyes were brown and wide with compassion, his were frigid-blue and lined with horrors unseen.

But there was something in the way he put what was best for someone he loved above his interests that was undeniably Molly.

'I would never let anyone hurt her,' Sherlock growled.

The gun did not move. 'And what makes you think you can protect her from your enemies? James Moriarty… he got rather close. _Twice_. The second time, she almost died at his hand.' Sherlock flinched as the hand holding the gun clenched in anger. Bond's voice darkened threateningly. 'Had you gone for him three seconds sooner, you would be the one with my bullet in your brain. No one… no one gets to Annie.'

'Molly,' Sherlock corrected and rose to his feet, Bond following him, but never dropping his aim. 'She became Molly when you left. And Molly is made of the same gumption and tenacity you are. She managed to kill Sebastian Moran while being held hostage, she faked my death, she lied for years to those she loved to protect me, and she faced James Moriarty and came out alive. She is not the child you left behind.'

Bond circled around the coffee table, the streetlights glinting off the barrel of his gun. 'You're right, she's not. But if anything, that only makes me more determined to protect her. She's on the edge of a world that would destroy her; and you're the one pulling her over. She loves you and would follow you to the deepest depths of Hell, if you asked her, staying there if it meant you were safe.'

Sherlock's stomach clenched. 'I know.'

'So you can understand why I would never want her to have that option,' Bond said casually and narrowed his eyes as he prepared to fire.

'But wouldn't killing me do the very thing you've been trying to prevent for almost thirty years?' Sherlock asked, his heart thundering and his eyes trained on the gun, trying to talk his way out of this predicament and also calculate the likelihood of his evading the straight-on bullet. 'If you kill me… it would destroy her, from the inside out. We both know that.'

Bond hesitated, but nothing showed on his scowling face. Finally, he spoke, his voice no louder than a hoarse whisper. 'What would you do? If you cared for someone so deeply that the very thought of their absence from this world tears your heart in two and you had an opportunity to prevent that… what would you do, Mr Holmes?'

Though his first instinct was to scoff at the very idea of caring for anyone, the thought of a world without Molly flashed across his mind and he froze, blinking rapidly. His heart tugged painfully and he suddenly felt unsettled on his feet, as though the earth had shifted under him. Molly gone? Visions of a future where he worked at Bart's without her left him feeling oddly bereft. They were friends, yes, but since her kidnapping and subsequent rescue following Moriarty's return, they had developed a rapport and friendship that flirted with something more; something that Sherlock was terrified to acknowledge. He may not know how to tell her that friendship wasn't enough, but he knew that a future without Molly alive and filling his life with smiles and the occasional slap was a future he never wanted to face.

He glared at Bond. 'I would do whatever I could to keep her safe. But she is safest when she is with me. And if you think for one second I wouldn't die for her-'

'It doesn't matter,' Bond snapped. 'It doesn't matter if you're too late.'

Sherlock stepped closer, knowing he was taking a huge risk with his life, but momentarily enjoying the feeling of looking down at the shorter man. ' _I. Will. Never. Be. Late_.' Each word fell heavy on his heart, but even as they faded into the quiet of the room, he knew that no promise he'd made before was more deeply felt.

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Sherlock was almost certain that Bond had smiled, his eyes crinkling briefly before falling back into the cold mask. He released the hammer and slowly slid the Beretta back into the shoulder holster under his suit coat.

'If you break that vow, Mr Holmes, you will pay for it with your life.'

Sherlock stared back at him and nodded solemnly. Accepting the acknowledgement, Bond straightened his suit lapels and flashed a cool smile at the detective.

'Glad we understand each other. It's been a pleasure,' he quipped and strode past Sherlock toward the door, clearly not one to waste time with chit chat.

Unable to stop himself, Sherlock whirled around and called after him. 'Will you ever tell her the truth?' The spy froze with his hand on the doorknob. 'That the brother she mourned is alive?'

Bond's fist tightened around the doorknob and the muscles in his neck strained as he clenched his jaw. Without a word, he jerked open the door and shut it quietly behind him, the gentle, decisive click his answer.


	34. Watching Over Her

_The Bond!lock Sequel to **Her Protector**. I had most of it written with the first and, needing a bit of a break from my Big Bang story, I finished it up today. Enjoy, my dears!_

It was the last warm day of autumn and the leaves were at their most brilliant, blazing gold and red against the setting sun. Laughter and voices carried on the breeze drifting across the countryside from the small gathering on the lawn outside the Holmes' family cottage. Every so often, the strains of a recorded violin would interrupt the conversations and Sherlock would hold his hand out to Molly, who would toss her head back and laugh, pretending to be put out as he led her in another waltz. Her shoes abandoned long ago, she danced barefoot, the hem of her white gown sweeping across the ground as they danced and her hair falling out of its simple chignon, framing her glowing face.

When the sunlight was nearly gone and the lanterns had been lit, Sherlock lifted his gaze from Molly's and froze. Silhouetted against moonlight, a man stood on the hill, indistinguishable from the distance to the average eye. But Sherlock instantly recognized him.

His heart skipped a beat.

'Sherlock?' Molly looked up at him worriedly and started to turn her head to see what had caught his attention. He stopped her with a quick kiss.

'I'll be right back.'

He slipped from her arms and grabbed a nearby lantern. Behind him, Mycroft had obviously known the man was coming and smoothly intercepted Molly's attempt to follow Sherlock. The lantern's light danced across the sloping field as he walked further from the celebration, the noise growing dim.

The man on the hill stood sentry, never breaking his gaze from Molly. The ends of his long coat waved in the gentle breeze and he'd popped his collar, the black fabric stark against his white-blond hair.

'Hello, Sherlock.'

'Brother,' Sherlock replied as he stepped up to Bond's side and turned to face the festivities on the lawn below.

Bond quirked an eyebrow, but didn't reply.

'She misses you.'

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught a flash of sorrow pass over the spy's face.

'I know.'

They stood in silence for a time, watching as Molly coaxed Mycroft into dancing with her. Several whiskey shots flowing through him, the British Government barely put up a fight and allowed his newly-minted sister-in-law to pull him into the open space. Sherlock and Bond let out simultaneous snorts when Mycroft lowered his usual mask of indifference and threw himself into the dance, clearly not one to hold his liquor well. Molly's laughter cut through the air as Mycroft twirled her around and dipped her exaggeratedly.

'You make her happy.'

Sherlock tucked his hands into the pockets of his suit. 'Apparently so. Though I have no idea how.'

Bond chuckled softly.

'Did you come to tell her?' Sherlock asked, though he knew the answer.

'No,' Bond whispered. 'I came to make sure she is safe. Safe… and happy.'

Sherlock felt his heart ache at the wistfulness in Bond's voice, the sadness underneath it all that spoke of the spy's desire to be a part of Molly's happiness and to share in her wedding day.

'I trust that my previous warning continues to be heeded.'

'Indeed.' Sherlock slipped his hands into his pockets. 'And considering she is now related to your superior and has him wrapped around her finger, her protection is now the second highest in the country.'

Bond raised his eyebrow in question.

Sherlock smirked. 'She plays on Mycroft's sweet-tooth with the proficiency of a trained spy. England might fall if she ever revoked his 'Tuesday Torte' privileges.'

'The great and powerful M, brought to his knees by a tiny, though fiercesome woman and her pastries.' From the corner of his eye, Sherlock watched as Bond well and truly smiled, his angular face softening with fondness and pride. The spy let down his guard for just a moment as he watched the sister he had given up laugh and dance, all dangers forgotten and all sorrows laid aside.

'For what it's worth,' Sherlock finally turned to look at his brother-in-law. 'Your disappearance from her life, though it broke her heart, has helped form her into the Molly I love; fierce, strong, and compassionate. For that… I can only thank you.'

Bond's throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly, a faint sheen in his ice blue eyes.

With a tight, but sincere smile, Sherlock broke away to head back to the celebration. He hadn't gone five steps before he stopped to call over his shoulder 'Will you ever tell her?'

The rustling trees and distant laughter were his answer.

He looked back to find the hilltop was empty, all signs of the spy fading into the night. With a heavy sigh, he resumed his walk back to his bride, letting the disappointment fade as he watched Molly dance with his father, her laughter carrying on the light breeze as her father-in-law no doubt regaled her with stories of Sherlock's childhood.

He smiled softly. She had already grieved for her brother and was moving on with her life. Perhaps… perhaps it was for the best if Bond didn't return.


	35. Giving Chase

'Molly!'

Holding her voluminous skirts up, Molly ignored the desperate shout behind her and pressed on. Her bare feet slapped the pavement and she ignored the blatant stares of passerby gawking at the teary, muddied bride running down the London street.

A black car screeched to a stop at the corner in front of her.

Molly gasped and stumbled to a halt. The back window rolled down and revealed the face of a stoic Mycroft.

'Miss Hooper, please get in. I believe there has been a misunder-'

His words were drowned out by a woman's angry shout behind her.

Wide eyed and confused, Molly looked back over her shoulder. People were being shoved left and right as Sherlock bounded after her, his morning suit disheveled and the bowtie undone.

She looked back at Mycroft.

Her face must have given her away her intentions. The sound of his door opening coincided with the swish of her skirts as she turned and bolted away from both brothers. Mycroft's curse rang in her ears as she darted through the crowd.

Where she was going, she didn't know. But she knew she had to get away.

She couldn't, she _wouldn't_ , marry a man who didn't love her.

She wouldn't marry Sherlock Holmes.

oOo

 **Three Months Previously**

Sherlock burst into the lab with his usual aplomb. 'Molly, I require your hand.'

Wrinkling her nose as she peered through the microscope, Molly put her experimental thoughts on hold and mentally ran through their inventory.

'I can give you a left hand of a 44-year-old man. But we're a bit short on appendages this week.'

When he didn't acknowledge her offering, she looked over at the door and drew back in surprise to find him looming over her.

'I require _your_ hand,' he clarified with a distinct sigh of frustration.

Molly looked at her hand then back at him and smiled cheekily. 'Sorry, Sherlock. But I'm not quite done with it yet.'

He rolled his eyes. 'Don't make jokes, Molly.'

Hurt flashed through her and her smile dropped.

'No, no, wait,' Sherlock sighed and ran his hand through his hair. 'I just meant right now, don't make jokes now. Not when I'm trying to be serious and propose.'

Instantly, Molly froze.

'I-I-I'm sorry,' she forced a laugh. 'I thought you just said-'

'Propose. Yes.' It wasn't until he held an open velvet box under her nose, a beautiful diamond ring, classy and simply, just what she'd always imagined adorning the finger of her left hand, that it sunk in.

What followed was nearly two hours of back and forth between a dubious Molly and an exasperated Sherlock. Eventually, worn down from all his logical reasons, Molly accepted his suit.

But it was with a heavy heart that she slipped the ring on her own finger as Sherlock left in his usual abrupt fashion.

She loved Sherlock. He… cared for her.

That was all that she needed.

Right?

oOo

 **Present Day**

It was only by a stroke of luck… or divine intervention… that Molly was able to lose her tails. She'd ducked into a shop and the Holmes brothers, expecting her to dart out the back, had passed her hiding spot behind the counter of the friendly old woman. While they scrambled to deduce where she'd gone, Molly had rushed out the way she'd come and slipped away in a passing cab.

The sweet, older cabbie had taken one look at his passenger, her torn and dirtied wedding gown and tear-stained cheeks, and quietly turned off the meter.

'Need to be alone for a bit, love?'

Molly sniffed and wiped her face. 'Know a place? Somewhere even the British government couldn't find me?'

His wrinkled brow furrowed for a moment before he smiled. 'I know just the place.'

oOo

It took him three hours to track her down.

Three hours of mind-numbing panic and heartache.

He had finally accepted love as a strength and he wasn't about to let it slip away because of his own stupid mistake. The only person that made pursuing what he once considered a weakness worthwhile was hurting and it was his fault.

A cabbie, one of his network, had texted him hours after he'd dropped the runaway bride off. In addition to the address of an old estate on the edge of London, the old man had added a stern admonition.

You don't deserve her, Mr Holmes. But she loves you fiercely and deserves to be loved as fiercely in return. Cherish her.

Sherlock's hands were shaking and his heart pounding as he walked down the garden path. Little solar lights lit the cobblestone pathway leading him toward the willow tree by a small lake. The moonlight shimmered across the water and he could make out Molly's silhouetted profile in between the hanging branches, sitting on the bench swing. Her elegant updo had come undone and her hair hung in loose curls down her back. The dress, the beautiful lace dress that hugged all her perfectly proportional curves in all the right places, brushed the ground in a gentle whisper as she swayed back and forth.

He accidentally kicked a few stones and she turned toward the sound.

The tear tracks on her face punched him in the gut. She didn't seem surprised to seem him. Just overwhelmingly sad.

He had to fix this.

Closing the distance between them, he knelt in front of her and took her hands in his.

'Sherlock, please, just go-' She couldn't finish as a tired sob bubbled out and a fresh wave of tears coursed down her cheeks.

'Molly, there is something I need to say. Before you write me off, will you let me explain?' He waited for her nod, albeit reluctantly, before he continued. 'I went about this completely the wrong way. I let my mind speak for my heart and I neglected to tell you the most important reason why we should marry.'

He let go of her right hand and reached up to thumb away the tears from her cheek. Her eyes watched him warily, hopefully.

'I foolishly thought all the logical reasons would be enough to convince you of my desire to marry you. But they weren't. Nor should they be.' He took a deep breath. 'I want to marry you because you are the love of my life, Molly Hooper. I love you. So utterly and completely that before I realised it, you had stolen my heart from me.'

He reached into the inner pocket of his morning suit and pulled out three rings. Their wedding bands and her engagement ring. He held out the diamond and looked at her with all the love and adoration he felt. 'Will you accept me as your husband? Allow me to love you, protect you, share a life with you? Have beautiful, brown-eyed brilliant Consulting Pathologists with you?'

oOo

What?

 _What?_

Molly gaped down at the love of her life, on bended knee, asking her in the most romantic way to marry him, to build a family and a life with him. She searched for any sign of deception, but couldn't find any. Just love.

 _Yes._

 _Say yes!_

Tears filled her eyes again, but this time of happiness, and she nodded her head. She could only keep nodding as Sherlock beamed and slid the ring on her finger.

He stood and pulled her to her feet. Her arms slid around his waist and she tilted her head back to look up at him. 'I love you, too. But you already knew that, didn't you.'

'I did. But it is reassuring to hear.' Sherlock smiled. He took a moment to wipe away the remnants of her tears and admire the beauty of her smile before bending down to brush his lips against hers. Pulling back, their breaths mingling, he whispered once more, 'I love you.'

Molly closed her eyes and smiled. 'I'll never tire of hearing that.'

Sherlock pulled her closer and rested his forehead against hers.

'And I'll never tire of saying it.'


	36. Worthy

It was snowing lightly when Sherlock stepped outside. He shut the door behind him, effectively muffling the sounds of the holiday party inside.

Snow crunched under his feet as he walked toward the gate, where a lone figure stood, leaning against the brick post and staring out onto the moonlit countryside.

Sherlock came to a stop beside his son and clasped his hands behind his back. He knew better than to force a conversation. When he was ready to talk, he would talk.

Seven minutes passed in silence before Scott finally sighed and dropped his head. 'They said no.'

Sherlock clenched his jaw. 'I see.'

Scott straightened and folded his arms. 'They were 'nice' about it.' By the sneer on his face, _nice_ wasn't an accurate account. 'Claiming they wanted the best for her and that, as much as they like me, I don't deserve her.' A pained look crossed his face. 'They think I will hurt her.'

'Will you?'

'Of course not!' Scott exclaimed defensively. 'I would die before letting anyone hurt her, least of all myself.'

Sherlock nodded. 'So ask her anyway. You don't need their permission.'

'It's tradition in their family,' Scott snapped. 'You wouldn't understand.'

'Actually, I do,' Sherlock admitted softly. 'When I wanted to ask your mother to marry me, I went to your Uncle Mark to ask for her hand. A ridiculous custom, but one that would mean a lot to your mother.'

Scott scoffed. 'So? I assume he said yes, since you've been married for 27 years.'

Sherlock took a deep breath and put his hands in his pockets. 'Actually, he said no. Seven times.'

His son's eyebrows shot up. 'Wow.'

'Yep. He was fairly adamant.'

Scott paused for a moment. 'So, what changed his mind? How did you prove yourself to him?'

Sherlock smiled softly. 'I didn't.'

'But you did end up marrying Mum and you get along great with Uncle Mark.' Scott frowned in confusion. 'I don't understand.'

Sherlock turned toward his son. 'It wasn't up to Mark to determine my worthiness of his sister's hand. And when your mother found out he'd said 'no' and had almost convinced me to let her go for her own good, she was more than a little angry.'

'How angry? Like the time I cut Georgina with your sword, then tried to stitch the wound shut with dental floss-angry?'

'To the power of ten,' Sherlock chuckled, remembering Molly's fury. 'She sat me down and told me in no uncertain terms that _she_ chose me, _she_ determined that I was worthy of her love, and _no one else_ had any business butting into our relationship.'

Scott chuckled. 'Go, mum.'

'And then nine months later, you were born.' Sherlock chuckled as his son's face twisted in disgust.

Sobering, he finished softly. 'What I'm saying is, you and Gemma know each other better than anyone else. If she has decided you are worthy of her love and vice versa, that is all you need to know.'

Scott took a deep breath and nodded. From his pocket, he pulled out a velvet box and popped the lid to reveal his grandmother's engagement ring. A smile spread across his face and he snapped the box shut with a determined gleam in his brown eyes. 'Thanks, dad.'

'What are you boys up to out here?'

They both turned to see Molly standing in the doorway.

Scott slipped the ring box back into his pocket, slapped his dad on the shoulder, and jogged up to the house.

Molly smiled as he approached and tilted her cheek, with he promptly kissed. 'Love you, mum.'

'Love you, too, Scottie. Now off with you!' She swatted him with a tea towel as he passed by. 'Your Gemma is wondering why you've left her to listen to Uncle Mark's football stories from decades ago.'

Sherlock grinned as he walked toward his wife. She crossed her arms. 'And?'

'He's sure to pop the question tonight.' Sherlock smirked and slipped his arms around her waist.

Molly sighed in relief. 'Thank goodness.'

'And if he's anything like his old man, he'll get started on those grandchildren tonight,' he added with a wink.

Molly laughed and wound her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss.

It was sure to be a Christmas to remember.

* * *

 **Hope you all enjoyed this little fluffy drabble! :)**


	37. Not So Typical

**A little fluff to make us forget the pain of S4. ❤**

'Under no circumstances are you to tell Molly what happened!'

Having raced up the stairs, Molly burst into the flat just as Sherlock bellowed. Sherlock was towering over John, who was giving the detective his fiercest Army Doctor glare. Their faces were red from shouting and both were covered in dirt and flecks of blood (not theirs, she was relieved to note).

'Tell me what?' Molly planted her hands on her hips.

Both men whirled to face her.

'Ah, Molly. I see you received my text of our return.' Sherlock schooled his features into a neutral mask and roughly pushed John toward the door. 'John was just leaving.'

Molly watched suspiciously as John and Sherlock conversed angrily in silence; John raised his eyebrows and Sherlock shook his head vigorously. John jerked his head toward Molly and mouthed _if you don't tell her, I will!_ Sherlock shoved the former Army Doctor out onto the landing and slammed the door behind him.

He turned around with a charming, distracting smile, which immediately dropped at the look on Molly's face.

'So help me God, Sherlock, if you don't tell me what happened, I will call your mother.'

'I sprained a few ribs, alright?' He blurted. 'A druggie got overly happy with a lead pipe and struck a lucky blow.'

Her brow lightened. 'Is that all?'

Sherlock gaped. 'Is that all?!'

Molly spun on her heel and walked into the bathroom, rummaging about in the medicine cabinet. 'A couple sprained ribs? Sherlock, you've certainly had worse.'

Having followed her in complete bemusement, Sherlock asked, 'Why aren't you crying?'

'Ah, here it is!' She declared victoriously and pulled out a roll of bandages. She turned to him and gestured for him to unbutton his shirt. 'Why should I be crying?'

'Isn't that what girlfriends do? Fuss and cry and do all sorts of things that would make me uncomfortable?' He hissed as her confident hands brushed against the bruising.

Molly smirked. 'Since when have I been a stereotypical girlfriend?'

Sherlock thought for a moment, then nodded his head in agreement.

'Just tell me when things like this happen,' she said calmly, reaching her arms around him to wrap the bandage. 'I won't burst into hysterics or get angry.'

Sherlock blinked in surprise. 'You won't?'

'Of course not,' Molly smiled and taped the ends down. 'There. All set.'

With that, she smiled up at him and he found himself incapable of doing anything apart from leaning down, with a slight hiss at the strain on his ribs, and pressing his lips to hers.

'You're perfect,' he said when they finally parted to breathe, his forehead pressed against hers.

'You're not so bad yourself.' She winked and pulled him by the hand down the hall toward the bedroom. 'But you should take it easy for a couple weeks and let those ribs heal.'

Sherlock's lips turned down in a pout until she looked back at him over her shoulder with a distinctive gleam in her eye.

'So just lie down and let me take good care of you.'

His pout turned into a lopsided grin as she pulled him into the bedroom and kicked the door shut behind them.


	38. Stranger at the Window

**AN: A little uni!lock meet-cute!** ❤

It was the last night of finals before graduation. And two weeks from Monday, Molly would begin her residency at St Bart's. She wasn't particularly worried about not passing; she was top of all her classes and a bad grade on a final exam would hardly make a difference. But she was a studious woman and she refused to do anything less than her best.

Which is why she was poring over three years' worth of notes on a Friday night, alone in her flat. All her peers and friends were out celebrating and would no doubt be hungover the following day.

She was in the middle of marking a rather important finding when there was a thump outside her window, followed by a muffled shout.

Molly's head whipped up and her heart jumped into her throat.

'John!' A man's voice whispered loudly. 'Damn it, John!'

 _Drunks._ Molly groused.

Her heart slowing, she dropped her pen and stood, making her way over to the window. She grabbed the top of the frame and was about to slam it shut when she happened to look down and saw a pair of hands gripping onto the ledge.

Two very real hands attached to the very real body of a curly-haired man. Who happened to be dangling right outside her window, three floors up.

With a stifled shriek, she jumped and smacked the back of her head against the bottom of the open window.

'Ow ow ow ow!' She grimaced and rubbed her head.

The man looked up in surprise. 'Ah. Hello.'

Molly was caught off-guard by his piercing blue eyes… or were they hazel? And for a burglar, he was rather overdressed in that expensive-looking coat. His curly hair was thick and lush, begging to be touched, and a girl could cut herself on those cheekbones!

'Might I ask for some assistance?' His dry tone belied his amusement.

Molly flushed dark red at being caught admiring the would-be burglar. 'O-oh, erm…' She bit her lip. On one hand, she should help this man before he fell to his death… or severe injury. On the other hand, she was a young woman alone with a strange man-burglar hanging from her window ledge.

'I am not a burglar,' he said and grunted, his fingers starting to slip. 'And I promise not to impugn your virtue, if you will just _help me up!'_

Deciding to deal with the potential consequences later (and with the can of pepper spray in her handbag on her bed), Molly grasped his forearms and tugged on the thick wool material. How her tiny frame could have been any assistance to him, she didn't know, but eventually the upper half of his body made it past the windowsill. Molly gave one last mighty tug and he came tumbling inside right on top of her.

'Oh!' She exclaimed, suddenly finding herself beneath a very solid man, his face right over hers, their noses touching.

'Thank you for your assistance,' he said, his breath brushing her mouth.

'Any time,' Molly replied breathlessly.

He smirked, an action that Molly had never found attractive on a man… until now. He got off her and stood, extending a hand down to her. 'The name's Sherlock Holmes.'

She struck down the ridiculous disappointment that welled up when he moved off her and accepted his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. 'Molly… Molly Hooper.'

If it was possible, she blushed darker when he didn't release her hand, but grinned widely and said, 'I'm in your debt, Molly Hooper.'

'Oh, no, I-I'm happy I could help, don't worry about it,' she stammered and pulled her hand back to tuck her hair behind her ear.

'Sherlock, you twit, where are you?' A hushed, angry call came from outside.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'I'd best be off then. My keeper calls.'

Molly tried to keep the disappointment from her face as he walked around her toward the door. 'Right, of course. Erm, be safe. And try not to hang from any more buildings. I don't want to see you on my slab any time soon!' She giggled, but then her eyes widened in horror as she realised what she had said. 'Oh, sorry, no! I-I just, I'm a specialist registrar, or I will be once I pass my finals tomorrow morning, and bodies that come in, dead ones, they'll need to be autopsied on the slab, obviously, a-and _god,_ I'm just going to stop talking now.' She winced and covered her face, wishing for the ground to just swallow her up whole.

'Coffee. Black, two sugars.'

Molly froze in surprise, then slowly lowered her hand. Sherlock was watching her intently, a slight smile on his face. 'Sorry?'

'It will be most efficient for you to bring coffee with you tomorrow, bypassing the need to meet in a public place and deal with the ambient noise of the average stupid masses while discussing intelligent topics.'

Utterly at sea, Molly asked the only question her jumbled thoughts could put together. 'Erm, where then are we meeting?'

'221B Baker Street. 4pm.' He flipped up his collar and winked. 'And obviously if you're buying coffee, it's only fair that I pay for dinner.'

With a flourish of his coat, he spun on his heel and disappeared, her front door opening and slamming shut.

'Wait a minute! I don't even know you!' Molly sprinted after him. She threw open the door and rushed out into the hall, only to find it completely empty.

With a frown, she went back inside and shut the door, leaning against it.

A mad man hanging from her window had just asked her out on a… date? Yes, it was definitely a date, she decided. And she would be just as mad to accept it! She didn't know him or anything about him, except that he was running about at all hours of the night hanging from window ledges.

She would be crazy to go out with him… Wouldn't she?

Only one way to find out.

A slow smile spread across her face.

 _To Baker Street it is then_


	39. A Burden to Share

Seven. Seven children lost before they'd caught him.

Sherlock let himself into 221 Baker Street quietly and shut the door, leaning back against it. It had taken three weeks to catch this psychopath and right now he felt all the exhaustion and frustration he'd pushed aside to focus on the case suddenly hit him. His knees buckled and he crumpled to the hard floor. The tears were only expected, physical and emotional exhaustion breaking down his barriers until he wasn't The World's Only Consulting Detective right then, but just a man who had failed to save seven lives.

He covered his mouth and bent double as a sob wracked his frame. It was early, the streets quiet and the flat dark; it would not do to wake anyone because he was weak, but he couldn't pretend to not feel it. Not right now. Tomorrow when he'd processed and filed away everything, he would pretend he hadn't lost it.

Suddenly, small but familiar hands were prying his hands from his face and he looked up through blurry, red-rimmed eyes to see Molly kneeling in front of him. Her loving gaze was full of understanding and relief. She gathered him into her arms and he buried his face in her shoulder, letting her rock him slowly as he cried. Her fingers brushed soothingly along his neck and down his back.

'I'm sorry,' he gasped, ashamed of his weakness, but unable to compose himself.

Her hand on his neck stopped and she shifted her head so that she could press a kiss to his temple. 'You have nothing to be sorry for. I am so proud of you.'

'I failed them. Those children,' his voice broke and he pulled back. 'If I had only found-'

'No,' Molly whispered fiercely and pulled him down, so that their foreheads touched. She took several deep breaths, clearly angry but, to his surprise, not with him. 'No, it is not your fault. You did not fail them.'

He opened his mouth to argue the point, but she pressed a desperate kiss to his lips and he swallowed the words. Her tears mixed with his and when they broke apart, she cupped his cheeks and looked at him fiercely.

'You saved countless more. You brought closure to those children's families and justice to their memories. You don't get to blame yourself for someone else's sins.'

He closed his eyes and heaved a shaky sigh, dubious.

'The weight of the world is not yours to carry,' she whispered and brushed a hand through his curls.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and held on tight. It might not be the weight of the world, but it was a heavy burden he chose to bear sometimes. He closed his eyes and breathed in the calming scent that was uniquely Molly. And as he exhaled, a little weight fell away to ease his burden.

It was not an easy road he walked, treading into the darkness of the world and praying it did not overtake him. But with her on his side to carry the burden with him and be the light that guided him home, he knew he could pick it up again tomorrow.


End file.
